My emotions were all over the place. Her obvious concern for me nearly reduced me to grateful tears.
She looked at me hard, examining my face. “It’s probably none of my business,” she said, “but are you and your husband having problems?”
Were we?
“We’re—I’m taking a break right now,” I replied as honestly as I could.
She hitched up her shorts—low-slung khaki Dickies with frayed hems. Her white baby doll tee stopped just shy of her navel. “Do you want to reschedule? We can do this another day if you want. I can give you a rain check if you need one.”
“I don’t need a rain check,” I insisted. “I need this.”
I needed her.
She probably would have been as shocked to hear it as I was to hear myself think it. But it was true. Even though I had just met her, she was the only certainty in my life. The only thing I could take at face value. The rest was smoke and mirrors, dependent upon the validity of the memories slowly trickling back into my faulty brain. The brief time I’d spent with Marcy had helped me forget about my problems. She had helped me to feel less alone during my self-imposed exile. Less like a freak who could barely remember her own name. On a day when I felt dead inside, her energy and good humor were two things I desperately needed.
“Give me five minutes,” I said.
“Sure thing.”
In the bedroom, I crammed sunscreen, a hat, and a couple of towels into my backpack, then tossed my robe on the bed and put on a black two-piece bathing suit. A T-shirt and a pair of shorts covered the swimsuit. I slid my feet slid into a pair of sports sandals. My reflection in the mirror over the dresser confirmed my suspicions: I looked awful. With no time to dab Preparation H on the bags under my eyes, I hid them behind a pair of Ray-Bans.
Marcy was sitting on the couch. When she saw me approach, she leaped to her feet. She was as anxious as I was.
I tried to ease the tension with a smile. “Ready to go?” I asked. I slid my arms through the backpack’s straps.
“You bet.”
Marcy’s scooter was waiting by the curb. “What, no pedi-cab?” I teased her, trying to get back to where we’d left off the night before when my situation had felt less dire.
“Maybe later.” She tried not to smile but failed. “The Seaport’s only a couple of blocks from Duval. Do you want to walk or ride?”
“We’re going to get enough exercise at the reef,” I said. It was already hot and humid and it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. “Let’s ride.”
She fired up the engine. I slid in behind her. Unsure of the proper etiquette, I didn’t know where to put my hands. Was I supposed to grip the seat, her shirt, or her? The basket behind me was also an option, but—depending on the length of the ride—I didn’t feel like dislocating my shoulders just to maintain a sense of propriety.
“Hold on!” she said as we pulled away from the curb.
To keep from falling over backward, I gripped Marcy’s sides with both hands. Just like the night before, she turned to check on me.
“Okay back there?”
I nodded. “Go faster,” I said, sliding my hands to her waist. “I want to feel the wind in my face.”
She gunned the accelerator and the scooter shot forward. Closing my eyes, I held on tight.
“It’s down there,” Marcy said, pointing to a sign advertising catamaran charters. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ahoy!”
At the pier, a woman with a tan even deeper and darker than Marcy’s returned her greeting. She wore a Florida Marlins baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Her shiny black hair fell past her shoulders, protecting the back of her neck from the brutal sun.
“That’s Ana,” Marcy said. “She’ll be our captain today. The Painted Lady seats eight, but Ana said she’d take us out on our own. It’ll be just the three of us. I kind of owe you after the trick I played on you last night, so this is on me, okay?”
I doubted the fifteen dollars she’d bilked me out of for the off-duty pedi-cab ride would even put a dent in the fee for the boat rental. If she and Ana were friends, though, perhaps they had worked something out.
“You won’t get any arguments from me.”
When we made it down to the dock, Marcy provided introductions.
At five foot three, Ana was all lean muscle and sinew. She wore a sleeveless shirt that showed off her burnished brown arms. A tattoo of the Puerto Rican flag waved proudly on her right bicep. She covered her dark green eyes with the mirrored sunglasses that rested on the bill of her cap. “Hola,” she said as we shook hands.
I’d barely said hello before Ana and Marcy began an extended conversation in Spanish. The only words I managed to catch were magnifica and amigas.
“What was all that about?” I asked while Ana prepared the cat for departure.
“She said she thinks you’re cute, but I told her to keep her hands off because I met you first,” Marcy replied. She made the short hop from the pier to the deck of the boat. She used hand signals to indicate to Ana that she was taking me below. “Then she asked if you and I were dating. I told her we were just friends.”
I followed Marcy down the stairs. My vision blurred briefly as my eyes made the adjustment from the sun to the shade. We ended up in the master stateroom, a swanky affair tricked out with a built-in bar, a king-sized bed, and separate bathroom and shower compartments.
“Is she a friend of yours, too?” I dropped my backpack on the L-shaped leather couch.
“One of my best. We dated for six months, but that’s over now.”
I walked over to the sliding glass doors. Beyond them lay a gorgeous view of the harbor. “And you’re still friends? I would think you’d be at each other’s throats.”
Marcy took off her T-shirt and shorts, revealing a pink string bikini. “Key West’s a small island. You see the same people everywhere you go. When you break up with someone, you have only two options: be friends with them or move. I don’t want to move.”
I could sense her wanting to ask me something, but she held off. Instead, she took me on a tour of the living quarters. The master stateroom took up half of the space below deck; staterooms in the port and starboard hulls shared the other half. When the tour was over, I stripped to my bathing suit and followed Marcy upstairs. Ana was in the shaded captain’s area, waiting behind the wheel.
“How’s it coming?” Marcy asked.
“Ready whenever you are,” Ana said.
Marcy turned to me. “Last chance to back out. Are you sure you want to do this?”
I guess it was my day to take the lead. “I’m sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
The Painted Lady sliced through the turquoise water at a brisk fifteen knots.
Marcy squeezed a line of sunscreen into the palm of her left hand and rubbed the protectant into the skin covering her rippled stomach. I was in shape, but I didn’t look like that. Oh, to be twenty-five again.
Ana caught me admiring Marcy’s body.
“You like what you see?” she asked with a wicked smile as she lowered the volume on the Shakira CD pumping out of the sound system.
“Easy, Ana,” Marcy said, closing her eyes as the sun beat down on her already brown body.
“You, of all people, should know that I don’t do anything easy, cara,” Ana shot back.
The comment made Marcy blush. I couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed for my sake or for her own. She and Ana had such an easy rapport that I wondered why they had broken up. Fortunately, I felt comfortable enough to ask, “Why aren’t you still together?” I rolled onto my stomach to give my back a chance to bake.
Marcy shaded her face with an upraised hand. “Do you want to tell the story or do you want me to do it?”
“I can’t talk and drive at the same time,” Ana said, her eyes focused on the horizon, “so why don’t you handle this one?”
“How long do we have?”
Ana checked the bulky diver’s watch on her wrist. “Twent
y minutes.”
“So I guess I’ll do the short version.” Marcy reached into the cooler at our feet and pulled out a can of Red Bull. She drank half of it in one thirsty gulp. “We met at a potluck,” she said, resting her elbows on her knees. She rolled the metal can back and forth between her palms. “I brought mac and cheese. Ana brought—” Memory failing, she turned to Ana for help. “What was it again?”
“Arroz con pollo. How could you forget? You had four helpings.”
“Who’s telling this story, me or you?” Marcy asked with a grin. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Ana and I met at a potluck at a mutual friend’s house about three years ago. I had just moved down from Tennessee. Ana had been here forever.”
“Watch it,” Ana said. “I know I’m older than you are, but not that much.”
“Okay, maybe not forever,” Marcy said, “but a long time, nevertheless. Is that better?” She turned to Ana for confirmation.
“Mucho. Gracias.”
“It was an instant attraction,” Marcy continued. “We slept together way too soon. We fucked like rabbits for six months, then woke up one morning and realized we didn’t want the same things in life. I was too young and—”
“I was too set in my ways,” Ana said.
“But I’ve grown up since then,” Marcy said.
“And I’ve learned to relax,” Ana chipped in.
“So what’s stopping you from giving it another go?” I asked.
Marcy shrugged. “Been there. Done that.”
“Bought the T-shirt,” Ana said.
Marcy finished the rest of the Red Bull and put the empty can in the cooler. “What about you?” she asked me. “How did you meet your husband?”
“Husband?” Ana asked, visibly surprised. “You mean you’re—”
Marcy quieted her with a warning look, then turned back to me. “If it’s not too painful for you to talk about, I mean.”
I scrambled for a response. Should I tell her the truth—which was I didn’t remember—or concoct a plausible lie—my ideal meet-cute? A lie would probably sound more credible, but I didn’t want to blend fact and fiction. I was already having enough trouble staying on top of things.
“I’d rather not, if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine,” Marcy said. “But if you ever feel like you want to talk, I’m a good listener.”
“Since when?” Ana asked.
“I always have been,” Marcy said, defending herself. “You just never liked to share.”
“I shared with you.”
“Yeah, what position you liked or what you wanted for dinner.”
Ana chuckled. “Well, what else is there?”
Ana cut the engine and pressed a switch that sent the battered steel anchor plunging into the water. I watched a thick chain play out of the side of the boat as it followed the attached anchor into the crystalline depths.
Ana reached for the key ring attached to her belt. Then she moved to the starboard side of the boat, where she kneeled and unlocked a panel that fit smoothly into the surface of the deck. She pulled out diving equipment—flippers, goggles, and fluorescent metal snorkels with black rubber tips on each end. Her movements were smooth and self-assured, despite the sometimes treacherous footing on the slippery deck.
“Are you coming in with us?” Marcy asked as Ana dropped the gear on top of the red and white Igloo.
Ana smiled down at her. “This is your date, not mine, cara.”
“It’s not—”
Ana cut off Marcy’s feeble protest with a wave of her hand. “I’ll keep an eye on things up here. You two have fun.” She gave us some basic pointers: breathe through your mouth and if you dive under, don’t breathe at all.
Like I said. Real basic stuff.
Chapter Nine
I dangled my feet over the side of the boat and swung them back and forth a couple of times to gather the momentum I needed to propel myself forward. The water offered a shockingly cool contrast to the superheated air. As I dove under, colorful fish—tropical and otherwise—swam over to greet me. Marcy captured the moment with the underwater camera Ana had let us borrow. She gave me the thumbs up to let me know she had the shot.
We surfaced for air. I blew collected water out of my snorkel and went under again.
The reef was breathtaking. Dozens of tiny fish swam in and out of the coral’s crevices. The colors were amazing. Brighter and more beautiful than those found in any paint store.
My body floated on the waves. I let my mind drift with it. All my cares, all my worries seemed far behind me. When Marcy floated past me squirting water out of her mouth like it was a whale’s blowhole, I laughed so hard I almost drowned. How long had I been impersonating Atlas, walking around with the weight of the world on my shoulders?
When Ana announced it was time to go, I swam back to The Painted Lady as slowly as I could. I didn’t want the trip to end.
A metal ladder attached to the side of the boat extended into the water. I got a good grip on the ladder with both hands before I attempted to climb up. Instead of making my way back to the deck, I felt as if I were ascending to the gallows.
For a few brief hours, I had been able to lock my problems away in a tightly sealed box and shut the lid. Now I would have to open that lid and deal with whatever flew out. The more I thought about it, the less certain I became that I wanted to find out what had happened to drive me so far from home. If I hadn’t been able to deal with it the first time around, what made me think I would be able to the next time?
I envied Marcy’s youthful exuberance. Her ability to make everything seem like a game. I wanted her to teach me how to play.
“Feel better?” Marcy asked as we removed our flippers.
“That was just what the doctor ordered,” I replied. I planned to get the prescription refilled as soon as I could. “Same time tomorrow?”
She grinned. “It’s a date.”
“Don’t say that too loud. Ana might hear you. We still need her to drive us back, remember?”
“Good point.”
I felt like I was glowing. The exercise had helped to clear my head. No wonder I went to the gym so much. It was to keep my sanity, not the body I had in high school.
Marcy took the film out of the camera and palmed it. “There are a couple of one-hour photo places on Duval. When we get back, would you like to grab some breakfast while we get these developed?”
“Sounds great.”
Ana held the deck panel open. Marcy and I dropped our gear into the hidden compartment. “What about you?” Marcy asked her. “Want to come with?”
She shook her head. “Can’t. I have to work.” She locked the panel and headed back to the captain’s station. “But I do want you to have dinner with me tonight,” she said, punching the button that raised the anchor.
“Both of us?” Marcy asked.
Ana looked from Marcy to me and back again. “If you want. Either way, I’ll share and you’ll listen.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what, or shall I say who, was going to be the topic of conversation.
Marcy and I headed below to shower and change.
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” I said.
“You didn’t,” she said. “Ana’s always on my case about something. That’s another reason why we broke up. She had a tendency to act more like my mother than my girlfriend. That’s okay every once in a while, but not twenty-four seven.”
She gathered her things and headed to one of the guest staterooms to rid herself of the salty residue that had been left behind from our dip in the ocean, leaving me the master stateroom.
I rinsed my bathing suit in the sink and left it on the counter. I knew it wouldn’t dry in the humid air, so I planned on wrapping it in the extra towel I’d brought and shoving it in my backpack when it was time to go. I stepped in the shower and turned on the spray, flinching a little as the water hit my skin. Despite my precautions, I’d g
otten sunburned. Time would tell how badly.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror when I got out of the shower. My shoulders had burned a little, but they didn’t hurt too badly. Yet. I moved closer to the mirror so I could carefully examine the body I had been walking around in for the past thirty-one years—the one that had seemed so unfamiliar to me less than twenty-four hours before. Now I remembered every line. Every curve.
The pale scar above my left knee was a remnant from a childhood spent climbing trees. Back then, my right side was markedly stronger than my left. As I tried to brace against the tree that was my obsession for the day, my left knee would always slip, scraping my skin painfully across the bark.
Much to her chagrin, my mother had been forced to make sure the hems of all my dresses fell below my knees so the world couldn’t see how much of a tomboy I was. Like the world needed to see my knees to know that. Everything about me screamed, “This is not your average girly girl.”
My father had instilled in both his children a love of sports and the outdoors. That love had never wavered, staying with Patrick and me throughout high school, college, and beyond. We followed the rising and falling fortunes of the Bulls, Bears, Blackhawks, and Cubs with almost fanatical obsession. My mother, accustomed to our delirium but immune to its effects, wondered why we took sports so seriously.
“They’re just games,” she’d say, standing in front of the TV. Funny how she always waited until the bottom of the ninth or the last minute of overtime to make her point. You’d almost be tempted to think she did it on purpose.
I smiled at the memory. As I got dressed, though, my good humor gradually faded. How long could I go on playing the aggrieved wife when I didn’t know if I had earned the title?
When I got back to the house, I was going to have to do what I’d been putting off. I couldn’t drag my feet any longer. I would have to watch the wedding video—and deal with whatever feelings that did or didn’t arise as a result. I couldn’t go on living in limbo. No matter how good a time I was having there.
In Medias Res Page 5
