Like a wild chimp on a clothesline, Bill sprang up and started fooling around with sails and booms and whatever all those ropes and things on a sailboat are called. The wind started blowing in short gusts, and the boat began to wobble. Cold Cuts and I held onto each other as the sky drew darker and the rain grew heavier.
“It’s okay, ladies,” Bill’s voice called from somewhere above us in the swirling darkness. Each lightning strike delivered a quick glimpse of man-bun Bill scurrying about here and there. I was beginning to feel as if I were trapped in soggy disco flashback when, finally, the boat’s bottom hit something. The impact caused me and Cold Cuts to lurch forward, nearly out of our seats.
“After me,” Bill’s voice sounded. In a flash of lightning, I saw him jump out of the boat.
“Wait for us!” I screamed as he disappeared in the darkness.
“I’m here,” he called. “Jump.”
“Let’s go!” I said, and tugged Cold Cuts to standing. “Jump with me.”
“Hurry!” Bill’s voice sounded nearby.
I flung myself into the water, in the direction of Bill’s voice. He caught me by the arm, keeping my head from going underwater. Once I was steady on my feet, he pushed me toward the shore. “Go!” he shouted.
“My friend!” I said.
“Go,” he commanded again, “before she jumps on your head. I’ve got her.”
Slightly stunned, I did as I was told.
“Okay,” he called to Cold Cuts. “Jump!”
I heard her shriek behind me, then splash into the water. I was nearly to shore when Bill breezed by me, holding Cold Cuts in his arms like a hero in a romance novel. Prince charming carried his elegant princess to shore, while I waded behind them like a sodden old lady’s maid. A streak of lightening illuminated the scene as he lay her gently on the sand.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” Cold Cuts answered.
“Me too,” I said.
“Good,” Bill said. “Follow me.”
Chapter Eleven
So much for a luxury honeymoon suite at a fancy resort. Shivering and soaked to the bone, Cold Cuts and I were holed up in the storm with Jesus’ twin brother in a driftwood lean-to covered by an old tarp with more holes in it than a moth-ridden slice of Swiss cheese. Rain poured in tiny rivulets through the holes and onto our heads as we sat in wet sand and cringed at the lightning show all around us. Like an old-timey flash bulb, each blue-white strike delivered a millisecond glimpse of the sailboat bobbing eerily offshore like a mysterious sea monster.
“We can’t go anywhere until the lightning lets up,” Bill said. “I suggest you pull your dresses over your heads and bury your legs in the dirt.”
“What?” Cold Cuts and I protested.
I looked at him, wild-eyed. “You’re not gonna murderize us, are you?”
“What?” Bill asked. “No! But if you don’t do like I say, the bugs might.”
A mosquito buzzed around my nose. “Oh, crap.”
As if summoned by his words, a horde of mosquitoes and no-see-ums descended on us like a Biblical plague. I started swatting and slapping and scratching like a nudist lost in the Everglades. A flash of lightning illuminated an old tin can in the sand next to me. I grabbed it and started digging. Cold Cuts found a kid’s plastic beach shovel. Globs of wet sand began flying around the driftwood lean-to like sodden popcorn in a microwave bag.
“I think that’ll do it, ladies,” Bill said, wiping sand from his face. “Now, lay on your stomachs and pull your dresses up over your heads. I’ll cover your legs with sand.”
Cold Cuts and I exchanged glances and nods, then obeyed his commands. We lay down in the shallow trenches we’d dug and Bill heaped cool, wet sand onto our flea-bitten flesh. The skirts of our dresses formed makeshift tents around our arms and faces. Once he’d covered us, Bill squeezed into the narrow space between us and covered his own feet and legs as best he could. Then he lay down and stuck his hairy head inside a crumpled potato chip bag.
“I hope this isn’t on video,” I said into the grey darkness.
Bill burst out laughing. His chip bag puffed with air. The wind caught it and nearly blew it away before he grabbed it and repositioned in on his face. The utter absurdity of our situation suddenly overwhelmed me. I exploded with laughter. Cold Cuts joined in, followed by Bill. The three of us laughed until we were spent. Then we snuggled a little closer together and waited quietly in the dark as our little hobo tent on Dog Island swayed precariously in the storm.
I WOKE TO THE SOUND of someone whispering beside me. I licked at the sand on my lips and started to answer, then I realized the voice wasn’t speaking to me.
“The dog lover’s only after one thing,” Bill’s husky voice whispered into the night.
“What’s that?” Cold Cuts asked.
“Availability,” Bill answered. “The dog lover operates on pure lust. He has sex with a girl, pulls up his pants, and starts sniffing around for the next one.”
Oh great. Our yoga guru/sea captain is also a love expert. This ought to be entertaining.
“Then there’s the lizard lover,” man-bun continued. “He’s always on the lookout for ‘the one,’ but he’s never satisfied. He chooses a woman, but he doesn’t stay long enough to build a real connection. He may help her dig a nest, but then he disappears, leaving her to fend for herself.”
I must be delirious. This is kind of making sense....
“But then there’s the monkey lover,” Bill whispered.
“What’s so great about the monkey lover?” Cold Cuts asked.
“He takes his time. He knows what he wants. He chooses his lover wisely, according to the attributes he desires in a mate. The monkey lover romances his girl.”
“How?” Cold Cuts asked.
“He shares his food. He grooms her. He fends off her enemies. He’s devoted to her alone. He protects her and her family.”
Oh, give me a break. This guy’s a sleaze. Either that, or I’m way too jaded about love.
I opened my mouth to speak, but was stopped short by a low moan. The storm had passed, and in the dappled moonlight shining through the holes in the tarp, I made out a slight movement. Bill was leaning over Cold Cuts, kissing her. She didn’t seem to be minding. In fact, just the opposite.
I suddenly felt as old and out of place as a deaf grandma at a heavy metal rave. I froze in place. Should I say something, or keep quiet?
Bill climbed on top of Cold Cuts. I cringed as something landed on the skirt-tent covering my face. It looked like a bikini bottom.
I’m already in too deep to speak up now. I scrunched my eyes closed and tried to focus on the sound of the breeze and the waves.
I guess they don’t call this “Dog” Island for nothing.
I WOKE TO FIND OUR yoga guru, sailboat captain and guest “services” expert with his hand on me, shaking me by the shoulder. I could barely believe it. I’d dozed off during his shenanigans with Cold Cuts! Geeze. I really must be getting old.
“What do you want?” I hissed.
“Hey. Take it easy. The storm’s over. We can sail back now.”
“What time is it?”
“Who cares?” Cold Cuts said huskily.
I rolled onto and elbow and sat up. “You’re right. Let’s get out of this place.”
We abandoned our hobo hut and sailed back toward the glow of scattered lights on the mainland. A dip in the cool Gulf before we boarded had washed most of the sand from our bodies, but had left us chilled to the bone. Bill found some blankets in the berth and wrapped us both up tight. As for himself, he seemed content in his soggy linen pants and shirt. Maybe all that afterglow was keeping him warm....
As we anchored offshore in front of the resort, I studied Bill in the misty moonlight.
“Thanks for getting us home safe,” I said. “That was certainly an adventure.”
“Yeah. One for the bucket list,” Cold Cuts said, and shot him a wink.
Bill anc
hored the boat and flung out a ladder. The three of us climbed over and waded to shore. Cold Cuts stayed close to Bill, so I decided to give the two lovebirds a moment alone.
“I’m gonna go get the room key,” I said. “Meet you back at cottage 22.”
“What if it’s not ready?” Cold Cuts asked.
“Then you should be able to hear me scream from there.”
The three of us shared a brief laugh. The inky sky was calm and still and perfect. Romantic, even. The surf was calm, as if the storm had never happened.
“Okay, then. I’m off,” I said, and strolled toward the lights of the resort, dreaming I was thirty-something again.
AS I PICKED MY WAY along the path in the direction of the hotel lobby, it dawned on me that I was alone. Outside. At night. In a strange place. A chill straightened my spine.
The tropical plants that had seemed so colorful and friendly along the trail during the day suddenly took on a sinister tone. The hair on my scalp stood up, and my feet picked up the pace. I was about halfway down the path when a movement in the bushes nearly startled the piss out of me. I opened my mouth to scream, but then I saw the cause of the commotion, and nearly laughed with relief instead.
Sticking out of the palm fronts was the beekeeper’s hat of that fishing weirdo Cold Cuts and I had run into earlier. When I reached out to grab it, I realized it was occupied. That’s when I screamed.
“Arrghh!”
“Hard-bodied grubs,” the head in the bushes said.
“What are you doing? You nearly scared me to –”
A flashlight clicked on and shot into my eyes like a laser beam from a UFO. My hands flew up to protect my eyes. “Geeze!” I shrieked. “What’s your problem?”
The head didn’t answer, but the flashlight cut out. Between white spots burned into my retinas, I watched as the head in the bushes rose to about six feet off the ground. The body it was attached to turned around and disappeared between a patch of croton bushes.
I stumbled, half-blind, down the path until the lights of the lobby came into view. I marched through the doors looking like a startled, half-drown, flea-bitten rodent.
“Good evening,” Monty said without even so much as a second glance. He reached over the desk and slid something across the counter toward me.
“Your room keys, Ms. Fremden. Your ‘luggage’ is already in your room.”
Chapter Twelve
I woke up clean, dry, and safe from being drowned or electrocuted by Mother Nature.
Now this is more like it!
I stretched my arms and legs out amongst the pile of fluffy pillows in my deliciously comfy bed. I stared up at the thatched ceiling. No raindrops landed in my eyes.
A cute, grunting noise made me glance to my right. Cold Cuts was sawing logs in the queen bed beside mine. The clock on the nightstand read 5:03 a.m.
I smiled with contentment – and also a trace of envy. I wish I could sleep in like that. But it was becoming clear that turning fifty and waking up at 5 a.m. came as a matched set. Back in December, after my real birthday, middle-age and early rising had shown up on my doorstop, stuck together like conjoined twins. Neither could escape the other, and now I couldn’t escape them.
My bladder pinged warnings it was ready to burst. I sighed and lifted the covers carefully, so as not to make a noise. I sidled to the edge of the bed and slowly crept out, then tiptoed across the room to the bathroom.
Surrounded by the luxury amenities of the cottage, the whole episode last night with the storm seemed like a bad dream. But one look in the vanity mirror convinced me it had been real enough. My thighs and butt cheeks were peppered with small, red blotches. As soon as I saw them, the bites began to itch.
“Arrgghh!”
I curled my fingers into fists and forced myself not to scratch. I did my business, then crept back into the bedroom. Cold Cuts was still asleep. I picked silently through my open suitcase. I’d packed for a romantic getaway, so I didn’t have any comfort clothes with me. I slipped into a fresh sundress and a light sweater. Then I grabbed my purse and I sneaked out the door.
Our tiny thatched-roof cottage looked darling in the soft, morning twilight. I hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob, then went in search of the nectar of life – a strong cup of coffee.
WHEN IT CAME TO COFFEE, Tom told me I had the nose of a bloodhound. Maybe he was right. I caught the scent in the salty air and followed it along the sandy path to the lobby. No one was at the desk, but the blessed smell of coffee filled the space. I sniffed my way to a small breakfast room where a large, silver thermos of hot java was already perked and waiting on a table next to paper cups and white, china mugs.
I snatched a paper cup from the columnar stack, filled it with coffee, milk and two sugars and drank it down like a drunk on a weekend bender. I fixed myself another cup and fitted a plastic lid on top. Satiated for the moment, I glanced around the room. Small rattan tables for two lined the walls. A bookshelf by the door offered an informal place for visitors to exchange paperbacks. I sipped my second cup of coffee and read through the titles.
Lost in Paradise caught my eye. I took the novel from the lending library, then sneaked out of the lobby and back down the tropical path to the shore. I laid my things on one of the resort’s fancy blue beach loungers. A pair of crisp, white beach towels were already laid across the back of the cozy chaise built for two. I looked around for the resort staff, but for the moment, it appeared I had the beach to myself. I laid the book down to claim my spot, then went for a short stroll along the shore in the early morning mist.
I WHILED AWAY THE MORNING sunning, reading and napping. The hapless girl in Lost in Paradise was waving in vain at another distant rescue boat when my cellphone rang. It was Tom, and it was precisely 8:30 a.m.
“Hey. How are things going?” he teased, his voice upbeat.
“Good. How about you?”
“I tried calling last night. You didn’t answer.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it. Cold Cuts and I went sailing. We couldn’t take our phones with us.”
“That sounds like fun. Sorry I missed it.”
“Don’t be. We had a...well, adventurous evening.”
Tom’s cheerful voice dialed down a notch. “Uh oh. What does that mean?”
“Nothing to worry about. We’re fine. In fact, I’m lying in a lounger right now, watching the world go by.”
“Don’t let it go by without me.”
“I won’t. How’s Jorge doing with his exams?”
“Too soon to tell. I just left him at the academy. He’s taking them now.”
“Does he seem, you know, prepared?”
Tom sighed. “Well, he’s still alive. That counts for something.”
“Is he really that bad off, Tom? Maybe he shouldn’t push himself so hard.”
“He’s got to start somewhere, Val. He’s nervous, yeah. I mean, who wouldn’t be? But I think he can do it.”
“I hope you’re right. When will he know the results?”
“Not until the end of the week. Until then, Goober and Winky will have to hold him together. I want to be here when Jorge gets done around noon today. I’m gonna take him to lunch, then I should be able to leave here around 2 p.m.”
“Good. Tell him I wish him the best, okay?”
“Will do.”
I glanced around the beach. Tourist traffic had picked up, but none of the sun-seekers were looking my way. I scratched a couple of bites on my butt. “Can you bring my chamomile lotion with you?”
“Sure.”
“Oh. And my white bathing suit? I seem to have forgotten it.”
“It’s already packed.”
“Aha! So you did sabotage me.”
“Hey. Can’t a fellow enjoy seeing his fiancée in a gold thong bikini?”
“Well, you probably won’t like what you see – especially now.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Like I said, nothing life-threatening.�
��
“That’s all the explanation I get?”
“Hey, I have to lure you here with something, don’t I?”
“I’d say you’re already fishing with the right bait. See you around 3 p.m.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Oh,” Tom said, his voice a little flat. “In case you were worried, Winky was able to salvage your ring from the garbage disposal.”
“Oh,” I said, my face suddenly hot. “That’s great!”
“I’ll bring it with me.”
“Super!” I said way too enthusiastically. I clicked off the phone and felt like a turd. Was I a bad fiancé? My stomach answered with a gurgle. I sat up in the lounger and lay my novel aside. Maybe breakfast would make me a better fiancé.
I STOPPED BY OUR LITTLE thatched cottage on the way to the breakfast room. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was still hanging on the knob. I slid my key into the lock and peeked inside. Cold Cuts was still in a heap of covers in bed. It appeared that, this morning at least, I’d be having breakfast alone.
Monty was at his post at the reception desk when I strolled into the lobby. “Good morning, miss,” he said in his snooty British accent.
“Good morning. Just going to breakfast.”
“Will your companion be joining you?” he asked.
“Uh...not this morning.”
Monty’s left eyebrow ticked up a hair. “Very good, miss. Follow me.”
Even though I knew the way, I let Monty lead me to the breakfast room. The cozy little nook was empty except for one other person. I recognized the backside of his unmistakable toupee and froze in my tracks.
“Uh...you know what,” I whispered to Monty. “I forgot something. I’ll come back later.”
Monty eyed me suspiciously. “As you wish, miss.”
I shot him a sheepish, fake smile, then turned and walked as fast as I could toward the lobby exit. When I stepped outside into the open, salty air, I sighed with relief. I’d escaped unnoticed by Jim. My stomach growled again, reminding me I was hungrier than a toothless termite in a pile of sawdust. Earlier, when I’d been lying on the lounger at the beach, I’d smelled coffee wafting upwind from the south. Maybe there was a breakfast place that banned bad toupees....
Fifty is the New F-Word Page 7
