Island Girl

by Lynda Simmons

  She screwed up her nose at the melting chocolate mess beneath the granola wrapper and dropped the whole thing into the garbage bag beside the table. “Like it or not, that canopy was meant for you, to protect you from the sun, and that is easily the most romantic gesture I’ve seen in years.” She poured water onto her fingers and shook them dry over the grass. “I’m telling you, that man is a knight in shining armor.”

  “Well, you know what they say. One woman’s white knight is another woman’s stalker.”

  She frowned at me and I was tempted to set the record straight. To tell her everything, starting with Big Al’s invasion into my life and ending with Mark’s objections to my plan for a graceful exit. Point out that a real white knight would have helped me research painless poisons or, at the very least, kept his opinions to himself. But this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion, so instead I said, “Trust me, Mark’s not here to win anyone’s heart.” But couldn’t resist turning my head just a little, to see what he was up to now.

  Telling a story by the look of it, and doing a fine job if the smiles on the faces around him were any kind of gauge. Then again, Mark had always told a good story, turning the simplest bedtime tale into something wonderfully funny and silly. Reading them backward, upside down, changing the endings, the beginnings, sometimes the whole thing, and always with a different voice for each character. That man could get my girls laughing so hard I’d have to go in and threaten to ground all three if they didn’t settle down. He just didn’t understand that bedtime stories were supposed be boring. How else could you get a kid to go to sleep? And it always hurt just a little that they never wanted me to read those books to them.

  Mary Anne got to her feet again. “Say what you want, I still think he’s here for you. And you can sit in the sun and eat melting granola if you want to, but I’m going back to the shade to get myself something cool and cream-filled.”

  “You’ve got ten more minutes,” I called after her, then picked up my own bar. Gave it a squeeze and put it back down. Went for more water instead, discovering there was barely a mouthful left. I’d have to walk over to the water fountain to fill it, which was fine. Perfect in fact. I could use the exercise. And so could Mark. Life in the city had not been kind to his health. Although I noticed he wasn’t eating any of his own pastries. I had to smile when he bit into an apple instead. Having to depend on a bike again must have been a rude awakening for a man accustomed to driving everywhere now.

  Still with all the money he must have these days, he hadn’t pulled up in a Hummer. His nod to air quality, I suppose, which was significant given the love he’d had for all things motorized. The day we met, he and Eric had talked nonstop about Mark’s 1965 Shelby GT350. I had no idea what that was, but according to Eric, it was the gas-guzzling, ear-blasting, drag-race-winning marvel that had transformed the Mustang from a secretary’s car to a street racer’s dream. Eric could not have been more jealous if Mark had said he wanted to sleep with me—probably less, in fact.

  Mark loved that car, but on the day Grace was born he went out and bought a baby seat for the back of his bike and came back with a receipt for long-term storage of his Shelby as well. It was his way of letting me know that he’d be around for a while yet, and it is still the most romantic gesture I have ever known.

  He looked over and caught me watching him. Held up the pastry box and signaled for me to come join him. I shook my head and saluted him with the granola bar, even took off the wrapper and bit into the warm gooey mess. We both knew I was being petty, but that will happen when someone pokes his nose into things that don’t concern him—and I was not about to encourage more canopies.

  With that in mind, I decided to devote this forced break time to other, more urgent matters. I smiled at him again, even gave him a little wave, then discreetly dropped the rest of the bar into the garbage, wiped my fingers on a flyer, and took my notebook and a pen from the bag. Wrote more research on painless poisons under Grace’s password and underlined it. Three times.

  I wasn’t completely convinced that poisons were the way to go, so to speak, but in a year of looking I’d failed to find a suitable alternative. It’s not like you can ask your friends for suggestions, casually drop the subject into dinner conversation and not expect them to watch your every move for a month afterward. And apparently librarians have suicide hotline numbers—or maybe it was just the one I spoke to—but I was not about to test that route again.

  So eventually I turned to the Internet and was shocked the first time I encountered an alphabetical list of tried and true methods on Wikipedia, covering everything from asphyxiation to venom. And I was frankly appalled to find as many websites dedicated to helping me achieve my goal as those dedicated to helping me change my mind. There was a world of whackos out there, but they had nothing to do with me.

  My choice was clinical, not emotional. I wouldn’t be leaving a note or citing a cause or putting the whole thing on tape for posterity, and I certainly wouldn’t be taking anyone else with me. I would just be gone, and it would look like an accident because that was the only way to be certain the insurance would pay. And once Chez Ruby closed, Grace was going to need the money.

  Discretion was my top priority, which meant toasters in the bathtub were off the list, along with closet hanging and anything to do with razors and messy cleanup. CSI was making it harder and harder to believe that there were any poisons left that couldn’t be traced, so the choices were narrowing quickly. A heart attack while parachuting would be ideal but difficult to guarantee, which brought me right back to painless poisons, with untraceable printed beside it.

  “I’m curious,” a man said, and I jumped. Slapped the notebook closed and jerked my head around. Mark smiled and held out a bunch of red grapes. “Like I said, I’m curious. How late are we marching these days?”

  “You’re being polite,” I said, ignoring his latest olive branch. “What you really mean is why are we still doing this?”

  “That’s harsh.” He plunked the grapes and a bottle of water on the table, then sat down and mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s just that it’s after five, I’m getting hungry and thought we could grab some dinner when it’s over.” He smiled hopefully. “So is it almost over?”

  “Almost,” I said, and had to smile myself when he merely nodded, pretending not to be overjoyed.

  “Then would you like to have dinner in the city?” he asked.

  “I don’t see why not.” I picked up his water bottle, pressed it to the back of my neck, and gasped at the sudden shock of cold against my skin. I let it rest there a moment longer, savoring the shiver that ran through my body, before setting the offending plastic back on the table. “I think the Bobs would really enjoy it.”

  “I wasn’t going to invite them. Or anyone else.” He flipped up the lid on my steel bottle, emptied the plastic one into it, and set it down in front of me again. “Let me take you to dinner, Ruby. Just the two of us.”

  “Definitely not.” But I did take a welcome sip of water. “Having dinner together would make it look like I’ve forgiven you, and I haven’t.”

  “How long before you do?”

  “Hard to say.” I put the container down, picked up the pen instead. “First I have to get Liz to come home, and then I have to figure out my exit route. Once I’ve completed both of those tasks, I’m sure I’ll forgive you everything.” I opened the notebook and tapped the pen on the page. “As you can see, I’m still researching poisons, although I’m also considering bungee jumping, parachuting, and hiring a hit man. A hit man could work, but it would be expensive. Cars, however, offer a variety of alternatives.” I glanced over at him. “Was that your SUV earlier?”

  “Forget it. I’m not going to let you wreck my car.”

  “And it would be rude of me to ask. Besides, an accident isn’t always fatal. What I have in mind requires a garage. And a hose. Do you happen to have either of those?”

  “Ruby, stop.�
�

  “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? Then perhaps you should get back to the party because this is what I’ll be working on for the rest of the break. But thanks for these.” I snapped a grape off the bunch and popped it into my mouth. “They’re delicious.”

  “If you think those are good, you should try the pineapple. And just so you know, your notes don’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

  “That’s wonderful.” I went back to my list. Wrote CARBON MONOXIDE in letters big enough for him to read from where he sat. “Perhaps you can help me out then, offer some suggestions, something I might have missed.”

  “Not off the top of my head. But a hit man does make sense, plus it adds a bit of fun to the plan. When will he strike? How will he do it? Could be exciting, and I could help out with expenses if you need it.”

  I put the pen down. “Are you serious?”

  “Are you kidding?” He picked up my pen and slipped it into the pocket of his polo shirt. “The whole idea is ridiculous. But now that you’ve put the pen down, let’s call a truce for the five minutes that are left.” He rose and held out a hand. “Come sit in the shade with me.”

  “Not a chance.” I snatched the pen back and underlined CARBON MONOXIDE. “In fact, I’m not speaking to you at all now.”

  “Suit yourself.” He sat down again and popped a grape into his mouth. “I’ll just sit here and watch. Point out spelling errors. Like that one there—”

  “Don’t you dare. And don’t speak to me either.”

  “Okay. Just one last thing and then I’ll shut up.” He poked a finger in my ribs and grinned. “Gotcha last.”

  Gotcha last. I hadn’t thought of that game in ages. Certainly hadn’t played it since he left. But I remembered it well enough now. I bent my head over my list. “I’m not playing.”

  “Even better, because that means I win.”

  “You can’t win if no one else is playing.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says everyone. Now stop talking so I can think.”

  “Sure.” He poked me again. “But I definitely win.”

  Mary Anne and the Bobs walked past the table. “We’re going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “Well, some of us are.” She paused, looking from me to Mark and back again. “What are you two up to over here, anyway?”

  “Gotcha last,” he said, at the same time as I said, “Nothing.”

  Mary Anne and the Bobs smiled. “Who’s winning?” she asked.

  “I am,” Mark said.

  “He is not,” I insisted. He poked me again and I slapped at his hand.

  “He’s definitely winning,” the Bobs agreed as the three of them walked away.

  “This is silly,” I said.

  Mark smiled. “So why don’t you just admit defeat and the whole thing will all be over.”

  “I am not admitting defeat.” He poked me again. “Fine.” I reached over and punched him on the arm. “Got you—”

  He poked me again. “Last,” he said.

  “Oh no you don’t.” I punched him and jumped up, staying out of reach. “I got you last and now it’s over.” He stood up and I took another step back, knocking over the chair. “Mark, I mean it. The game is over.”

  He came a step closer. “Says who?”

  “Says me.” I took another step back, a smile coming to my lips. Every cell in my body suddenly alert, awake.

  “I don’t think so.” He lunged and I leapt to the right. He lunged again, got me this time. “Dammit, Mark.”

  “Gotcha last,” he said, and started to stroll away, back to the canopy.

  “Not bloody likely,” I yelled, and darted after him. Jumped up, tapped him on the head, and kept on running. “Gotcha last!” I called over my shoulder and felt my stomach leap when he came after me. “Stop it!” I hollered, and kept running, around the canopy, back to the table. Around the table, back to the canopy, with Mark on my heels the whole way.

  I started to laugh, I couldn’t help it. “Stop him,” I called to the canopy party, but they only laughed as we went round the chairs a third time. Then he stopped abruptly, picked up a chair, and came straight through the middle. “No fair!” I yelled, and dashed out into the line of taxis. I was still laughing, needing to stop, to catch my breath, but that would mean he’d get me last and I couldn’t let that happen.

  Round the taxis, round the limos, the two of us laughing, stumbling, finally stopping, one car apart. Bending over, sides aching. “Admit I won,” I gasped. “Admit it.”

  “Never,” he roared, and this time I was too slow off the mark. He had me before I knew it. Picked me right up off the ground and threw me over his shoulder. Carried me back to the grass. Taxi drivers honked, the canopy party cheered, and I was still laughing when he finally sat me down on the table. He put one hand on either side of me, trying to catch his breath as he pressed his nose against mine and announced, “Gotcha last. Game over. I win.”

  “Okay, okay, you win,” I said, giggling and gasping for air while my hands searched for water. He handed me the bottle. I knocked back three fast gulps and hiccuped.

  He laughed and shoved the flyers over, sat down beside me. Close but not touching. “One more lap and I’d have been dead.”

  “I’ll remember that next time.” I didn’t move over, didn’t need more space between us. Just wiped my mouth and handed him the bottle. “I saved you some.”

  He nodded his thanks and drank it slowly, wisely. No hiccups from that side of the table. He always did have impeccable manners. He handed me back the water. “I haven’t run that hard in years.”

  “Same here,” I said, feeling lighter, calmer than I had in a very long time.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, but nobody ever played that game the way you do.”

  I fluttered my lashes at him. “Well, you do bring out the idiot in me.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. I like your hat, by the way.”

  I’d forgotten about the hat. I lowered my chin, looked at him from underneath the bill. “It does have a certain je ne sais quoi. I’ll get you one if you like.”

  He laughed and leaned back on his hands. “All kidding aside, you look great. A protest always did bring out the best in you.”

  “It’s not the protest,” I said, closing my eyes and leaning back with him. “I’m just having a good day. No fog, no confusion. Just me and the hat, having some fun.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  “I really think I am.”

  He went quiet for a moment, and then asked. “Is this an official truce, then?”

  “It must be.”

  “Good.” He sat up again, his breathing normal at last. “So you’re still rabblerousing, I see.”

  “Not much anymore.” I sighed as yet another turboprop plane flew over my head. “In fact this is the only protest I come to these days.”

  “The Bobs mentioned something about that. What happened?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering. Once Grace went to live with Liz, I just lost interest. For the first time since she was born, my life was my own with no one else to think about, no one else to take care of. I had all this time on my hands and I could have gone anywhere. Europe, Africa, the choices were endless, but I didn’t have the heart anymore, and eventually I couldn’t fake it either.”

  “I can’t imagine you even trying.”

  “I did for a while. I thought that if I went through the motions, the feeling would come back, but it didn’t. So I stopped.”

  I sat up and pulled the bunch of grapes closer. Snapped off a handful and popped one into his mouth, another into mine. “I felt a little guilty at first. All those years telling people it was their duty to get involved, to take a stand, and there I was, sitting at home, staring at the television.”

  “You did more than most for a long time. You had nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “Took me a while to figure that out.” More grapes—one for me, one for him. The fruit was warmer now. Sweeter, mor
e satisfying. “But eventually I realized I wasn’t as important as I thought I was. That the world was chugging along quite nicely without me, and the guilt eventually went away. So I got up off the couch and joined a marathon canoe club.”

  He smiled at me. “Isn’t marathon canoeing for crazy people?”

  “That’s why I liked it. Plus it was demanding and exhausting, and after a few hours in the canoe, there was nothing in my mind but the next stroke. Not Grace or Liz or what they might be going through on the other side of the bay. Just the next stroke.”

  Over at the canopy, Mary Anne and the Bobs were back, the three of them clapping their hands and getting the rest of the protesters on their feet. “Break time must be over,” I said.

  “Must be.” Mark groaned as he slid off the table.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t be much longer.” I stood beside him, watching the others assemble at the curb, waiting for me. Waiting for the drum, at least. “Funny isn’t it, that of all the causes out there, this is the one that keeps me coming back, even though it’s never gone particularly well.”

  “What are you talking about? They didn’t get a bridge, did they?” I looked over at him and he shrugged. “Seems like a victory to me.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. I think I needed that.”

  He turned away, looked out over the row of taxis. “I hate to say it, but I’ve missed you, Ruby.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” I said, watching the taxis with him, because it was easier. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

  “We could have dinner. Then I wouldn’t be hungry anymore. That would change something.” He turned back to me. “What do you say? Can I take you to dinner when this is over?”

  I’d almost forgotten the way his eyes tip down at the corners, making him look sad even when he’s smiling. And the way his head tilts slowly to the right when he’s waiting for an answer and not at all sure it’s going to be the one he wants. But standing there watching him shuffle his feet as that smile twitched and threatened to fade, I suddenly remembered everything. The softness of his lips on my throat, the tickle of his breath in my ear, the gentleness of those big, ham hands in the dark. And I heard myself saying, “Yes, I’d like that.”