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A Hard Chance Tom Gallant, Pottersfield Press (page 2 of 2) Page 2 of 2

“Well … I guess we should talk. Sure. It would be nice.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at …”

“Why don’t I just meet you there.”

“Starts at eight.”

“See you then.”

“Happy dreams.”

I walked back to the boat, stood on the dock and gazed at the schooner, gently tugging at her lines. She sat upon the breast of the bay like a gull, sleek, elegant, purposeful. Avenger. I’d wanted to change the name, but David Stevens, who designed and built her, didn’t want me to. I listened to David. He was a Master. She is a schooner to steal your heart away. I had old well-dreamed dreams of a schooner and the deep blue sea. I wanted to shear them with a woman.

It was still coolish. I climbed aboard, lowered myself through the hatch to the mahogany warmth below where I continued my journey into the rum and pondered the mysteries of love. I was beginning to think my problem was that I didn’t’ choose women for the right reasons, that I was drawn to the wrong type. I liked them beautiful, but not conventionally so. I liked them smart and strong, but I seemed to be drawn to some kind of deep sorrow as well. There had to be something to heal, something that only my love would fix. This way goes madness.

Friday came. Before I left for town I called the woman to confirm our date. She couldn’t come, she said. She was going out with the girls, but she would meet me back at her place at midnight if I wanted. I wanted.

I went to the gallery alone. I’m uneasy at such events. I never know how to manage the canapés and the drink without looking like a goof. I didn’t know anyone there and was trying to be interested in the paintings, which were solid work, nothing to lose your head over, but good solid work. I liked them. I was about to sneak away and find a dark bar when a shockingly beautiful blond sidled up to me and asked, in a southern accent dripping with honey, for a light. I swear to God, that’s how it happened. Her name was Melissa.

This was the beginning of our romance. We talked til the reception was over, and then I was invited to the post opening party at the artist’s girlfriend’s apartment. We talked some more. But I had to be somewhere at midnight, remember? As I left, I asked Lissa for her number. She wrote it on a matchbook cover, I put it in my wallet, we hugged, I left. I arrived at My Last Duchess’ place at midnight, as planned. She arrived at two-thirty.

Once, as a child on fire with the love of God, I knelt on bare knees on a cinder path, arms outstretched as if crucified til the pain made me cry. I wanted to see the Blessed Virgin like the children of Guadeloupe had. I didn’t.

Excerpted from A Hard Chance: Sailing into the Heart of Love by Tom Gallant. Copyright © 2005 by Tom Gallant, Pottersfield Press, Nova Scotia, Canada. Used with permission. All rights reserved. www.pottersfieldpress.com.

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