Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  One thing’s for sure: he has balls. I wonder if Adrian would’ve gotten everything he wanted from me if he had been just as persistent.

  Chapter 3

  Kind Of Like A Party

  First, I put my brand-new groceries in the refrigerator. The time I spent with Belmont has somehow energized me. I feel resilient enough to check my email. Could a few kisses and being felt up by a sexy man I met on an impulsive trip to a New England island make me forget the pain of a ten-year relationship gone awry? I didn’t think I was that fickle.

  I go to the office at the back of the house. The room looks out over the Edgartown Bay. My laptop and notebooks are already sitting on the desk. I must’ve put them there when I arrived. The sad truth is I can’t remember doing it. I turn on the computer and find a significant number of emails from Maya, my former best friend. I hesitate before clicking the last one she sent.

  I called your mom and told her what happened. She’s worried about you. She wants you to call her. Let’s talk, Daisy. It’s not what you think.

  Mom? Worried? Right. I roll my eyes and read the message she sent three hours before that one.

  Adrian wants to explain himself. Will you listen?

  Two hours before that.

  I don’t want to throw fifteen years of friendship down the drain. Adrian and I love each other, but I’ll tell him to go fuck himself if that’s what you want.

  I sniff cynically. The heck she will. I decide to write her back so that she’ll stop emailing me.

  Maya, I’m on assignment for a month. I’ll call you when I return. We’ll talk then.

  I push send and then search for all the emails she’s ever sent—opened and unopened—and delete them. I do the same for all of my replies to her. I want her gone for good.

  There are four messages from Adrian. After contemplating opening the last one he sent, I brave forward and click on it.

  I told Maya to delete all the pictures and status updates off Facebook. Let’s talk. Call me because I can’t reach you. Love, Adrian.

  I gasp, disgusted. “‘Love, Adrian!’”

  Love?

  My headache returns with a vengeance.

  I shut off the computer and stomp upstairs to take a bath. Hot water and a little steam are the fastest ways to reduce my anger

  The tub is an old-fashioned claw foot one. I strip out of my dress and underwear, lift my hair into a high ponytail, and wait for the tub to fill. Suddenly, I’m reliving that kiss. Belmont’s lips are so soft. Should a man have such supple lips? I slide my thumb across my lower lip. Everything that happened today could not be real.

  When, by chance, I glance at the water, I rush to turn it off. It almost overflowed.

  I slowly and carefully enter the bubble bath until I’m submerged up to my neck.

  “‘Love, Adrian,’” I whisper with my eyes closed. “‘Love, Adrian.’”

  Could he be that self-centered? Why couldn’t he have signed, “I screwed your friend while we were still together because I hate and despise you-Adrian”?

  On that note, I sink all the way into the tub and let the water bury me. One. Two. Three. Four. The seconds tick by. You can do it. I encourage myself to refuse to come up for air until I’m free of the anger, embarrassment, and pain.

  “No, I can’t,” I wheeze as I break the surface.

  Five hours, after my long bath, I stand in front of the mirror, contemplating whether or not I should go through the trouble of taking the car out of the garage, plugging the address in the GPS, and navigating in the dark. A week-long sleeping and crying binge has made my brown skin chalky. On a good note, my eyes aren’t red, and I credit the fresh New England air for that.

  I brush on a little mascara and slide on some lip gloss. Too much makeup makes me look like a caricature. I have doe eyes, so it appears as if I have natural eyeliner and the apples of my cheeks naturally develop a red undertone, especially when I’m flustered or embarrassed or attracted or something. I bet a million dollars that tonight Belmont Lord will make me feel all three.

  My clothes are still in the suitcase, so I take some time to neatly put them away, except for a stretchy, knee-kissing dress made of white fabric with pink and red silkscreen roses. I shimmy into it, put on a pair of red, flat strappy sandals, and fluff out my thick and wavy hair.

  I fish the car keys out of a drawer near the back door in the kitchen and hit the road before I change my mind. I keep the top down on the Mini Cooper even though the night is cool. My stomach turns the closer I get to my destination. The forest on both sides of the road runs deep and dark. There’s still a lot of traffic. It’s not the 405 or 101 rush-hour type, but for the size of the roads and the lack of city amenities, it’s still a little too busy.

  Make a right on Winter Road, the navigator says.

  I make that right.

  Your destination is on the left.

  Cars are parked along the edge of the tree line across from another colossal, gray, shingled New England colonial. The home stretches from one end of the property to the other. There’s a lot of house on this large lot, and the smell of the nearby ocean tints the air. I park between two gigantic pickup trucks and step onto the white pebbles that cover the surface of the motor court. A Jeep and another truck roll up the gravelly drive, and seeing them puts pep in my step. Not knowing anyone but the birthday boy is awkward enough without running into strangers at the front door. I’ve crashed weddings and parties before but only to add flair to my articles. This is a totally different ordeal. I’ve been thinking about the way he kissed me and squeezed my nipple all day long.

  At the top of the wraparound porch, a sign saying, “Get Your Ass In Here” is taped onto the red, wood door, which is cracked open. I take a deep breath and follow instructions.

  The faint sounds of instruments mixed with chatter—including laughter and a few overly excited, drunken females’ voices—fill the air. My feet want to run me back to the car, but the people who arrived after me are on my heels. There’s no turning back.

  I hurry through a short corridor with an arched ceiling and into a wide-open living room filled with people. The guests stand in groups, talking and drinking: beer in bottles, liquor in high-balls, cocktails, martinis, and wine. A group of people lounges on a large, comfy mustard-colored sectional, focusing on a card game being played on a short, marble-topped table by four people on beanbag chairs. Plopped in front of the fireplace is the source of the music. A group sits around two guys strumming guitars and one blowing the harmonica. There are about fifty or more attendees in all and most are couples.

  Suddenly, I’m being observed in the way that strangers amongst friends are examined. Normally, that doesn’t make me uncomfortable. If I’m working on an article, I try to act natural, like I belong. Tonight, my eyes dart neurotically around the room in search of that one familiar face. When they locate him, he’s standing behind me, staring at me with a weird grimace.

  A few seconds pass and he doesn’t advance in my direction. The girl he met at the ferry walks up beside him. She says something to him, but he doesn’t respond, nor does his expression change.

  I’m wondering if he’s lost his mind. He looks as if he’s angry to see me. I instinctively turn toward the doorway. Right before I run out of here, he walks toward me. He’s still watching me in that intense way.

  “Seven minutes to spare,” he says when he reaches me, frowning at his wristwatch.

  “Seven minutes to spare?” I ask.

  “It’s seven fifty-three.” He scans me from head to toe and toe to head. “You look beautiful—sexy.” The same scowl returns.

  “Are you sure?” He sure isn’t looking at me as if he finds me beautiful.

  “Very.” He leans toward me and puts his mouth against my hair near my ear. “Too beautiful. And you smell good.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes. I should not be feeling whatever this is. I’m still pissed off at Adrian and Maya! I’m still a woman scorned, not a woman fallin
g fast for a strange man on a work trip.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asks without breaking eye contact.

  “Sure,” I squeak.

  “What will you have—besides me?” He smirks, entertained by his own joke.

  “What are you serving?” I catch myself. I can’t believe how flirtatious that sounded.

  “Whatever the hell you want.”

  This time, I put on a less-seductive voice. “Do you have a burgundy?”

  “Red or white?”

  “Red.”

  To my surprise, he gives me a quick peck on the lips before saying, “I’ll be back.”

  I watch his tall, elegant frame saunter past the full bar and through a short hall which I suspect leads to the kitchen. It seems as though the entire room saw what just happened. Suddenly I’m being observed more curiously. I stare down at my feet in my strappy sandals, counting the seconds until Belmont returns.

  I’m not sure how long it’s been since Belmont trotted off to pour me a drink, but I’m getting restless. I scan the room nervously. I’m still being watched. A door is cracked open behind my left shoulder. I play a game with myself. If wherever that door leads takes me to the front of the house, then I’ll leave and tell Belmont I didn’t feel well if he appears on my doorstep tomorrow.

  And so, I step through the door and onto another wide porch. I’m surrounded by comfy patio furniture. There are two longue chaises, one on each side of the door, and a bulky chair has been placed on each side of them. From where I stand, I can see a dark ocean rolling onto the shore and the shadow of a rocky island in the distance. I’m compelled to sit on the foot of the chaise and let my eyes consume the wonderful beyond.

  It’s nice and quiet in the night air. Colorful potted flowers hang from the decorative spandrels, lending to the sanctity of the moment. Finally, I’m not so uptight. This is what beautiful, exotic destinations were made for–to provide moments of transcendence. Adrian, Maya, and the absent Belmont Lord, who owns the view I’m enjoying, are far from my mind.

  Then I hear music. It’s coming from the lawn below. I stretch my neck to see a man walking in my direction, strumming a guitar. I search to my left, then to my right to plot an escape. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. Both sides of the porch are enclosed. I would have to leap over the banister and drop about five feet in order to get out of here unseen—but probably not unscathed.

  Instead, I watch him approach. He has shoulder-length hair and is wearing dark Bermuda shorts but no shirt. The ripped muscles in his chest and calves are simply gorgeous. He’s climbing the steps. There are tattoos on his lower legs, shoulders, and one of a misty sun on his chest. His dull brown facial hair is at odds with his bright blue, curious eyes that watch me carefully. I’m immobilized.

  He’s playing a light, romantic melody, perfect for this kind of night. I expect him to walk right past me and into the house to join his friends in front of the fireplace. However, he gets comfortable on the fluffy patio chair next to me.

  He’s watching me as he plays his song. Can this get any more awkward? Thank God he finally stops picking the strings to ask, “You’re her?”

  “I’m her?” I’m confused.

  “You’re the girl from the docks. Belmont’s been bragging about you.” His eyes gleam appreciatively. “But he’s not your type. I am.”

  “Sorry?” I say again, wondering if he seriously just said that.

  “Forget it,” he mutters. “Daisy, right?”

  “Um-hum,” I reply suspiciously.

  “So, Daisy, what brings you to Shitty Island?”

  “Shitty Island?”

  His eyes dance as he stares at my face. I can tell that he’s enjoying the effect he’s having on me. “That’s my name for it. But really, why are you here? Vacation? Newbie?”

  “Work,” I quickly answer.

  “It’s a bad time to find a job on the island, but I can hire you. I’m in the market for a personal assistant…” He smirks naughtily.

  “I’m a travel writer,” I quickly explain.

  “And you’re writing a story about Shitty Island in the autumn? Should’ve come in the summer. At least your story could’ve been a little interesting.”

  I shrug, slightly put off by his forwardness. “I don’t know. Look at that view. That’s what traveling is all about.”

  His eyes follow mine.

  “Plus,” I continue, “I have golden fingers. I can make a slap of earth in the middle of nowhere sound like paradise.” I’m definitely tooting my own horn.

  “Then I should take you to Noman’s Land.”

  “Oh,” I say with a roll of the eyes, “you’re joking.”

  He chuckles condescendingly. “You’re really cute. But there’s really a spot near the island called Noman’s Land.”

  “Is that so?” I’m intrigued enough to forget how patronizing he sounds.

  “That is so,” he assures me.

  “No man’s land? Like no man lives there?”

  “Noman’s Land. One word: Noman’s.”

  “Noman’s?” I repeat.

  “Noman’s,” he confirms.

  We fall silent. I can’t believe it, but we’re grinning at each other. There’s something familiar about the contours of his face and the shape of his eyes.

  “Are you related to Belmont?” I blurt out.

  One side of his mouth lifts into a severe smirk. “He’s my brother.”

  “I see the resemblance.”

  “So you came all the way to Shitty Island by yourself?” he asks, quickly changing the subject. He doesn’t look happy about what I just said.

  “Why do you call it that? This place is beautiful.”

  “It’s shitty for me.”

  “Then why don’t you leave? You look like an adult to me.”

  He grins for a long time before saying, “Where the hell will I go?”

  “Anywhere you want.”

  Once again, we’re staring quietly into each other’s eyes. I kind of like the tricky conversation we’re having. Belmont’s brother is certainly an interesting specimen. Just for a moment, I wonder if I could replace him with Belmont, which is sort of insane since, other than a few kisses, Belmont and I aren’t romantically involved.

  “No boyfriend?” he asks out of the blue.

  “Not anymore.” I look at the active ocean.

  “Did you just break up?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a tired sigh as those old feelings stir inside of me again.

  “What happened? Were you too awesome for him?”

  “Ha!” I scoff. “Would that be the reason your boyfriend dumps you—but doesn’t tell you that you’ve been dumped—and then ends up engaged to your best friend?” I lift a finger pointedly. “Ex-best friend.”

  “Hell yeah!” he exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. I see he’s joking. Making light of the Jerry Springer-ish ordeal I’m in is welcomed. “Hey, you want to go down to the beach?”

  I glance over my shoulder, wondering what in the world happened to Belmont. “Well, Belmont was supposed to bring me a drink, but I think he got lost.” I frown at the door, waiting for him to open it at any second.

  “I’ve got us covered,” he says. He feels under his chair and pulls out one and then two wine bottles filled with reddish-brown liquid. “Follow me.” He leaps to his feet.

  I recoil. “What’s that?”

  “My special brew.”

  “Brew of what?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  Before I can stall in hopes that the brother I’m more interested in will open the door behind me with a glass of burgundy in hand, the other brother is off. In a fraction of a second, I decide to follow. We walk beside each other across a lawn, past a guesthouse that’s been fashioned out of a barn, and down worn cement steps leading to the beach. Four sets of Adirondack chairs are plopped in the sand, facing the great blue sea. A little farther down, I see a stack of wood waiting to be set ablaze for the big
bonfire.

  As I walk, I kick up grains of sand, and many of them are trapped under my feet and between my toes.

  “Ah ha,” Belmont’s brother says. I rip my eyes from the ocean to see that he’s produced two wine glasses from a portable cooler that was already there.

  I study how the moonlight presses down on the surface of the water as he pours the liquid in the bottle into the glasses. I’ve always found the Atlantic Ocean more ominous than the Pacific. It’s as if the great beyond is pacing feverishly along the coast, steaming mad that dry land dares to exist. It’s threatening but exquisite.

  “Here you go,” he says as he hands me the glass.

  I take it. The concoction has a rigid but fruity scent.

  “It’s nice out there,” he says, gazing ahead as he guzzles whatever’s in the glass.

  “It is.” I take a sip. I’m surprised by the taste. “Mm, this is good.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Told you.”

  Belmont’s brother is cute. He’s just as sexy as Belmont but in a different way—in an earthy way. He reminds me of the boys surfing the south California beaches, going down toward San Diego County—the ones who look as if they’ll only take a bath if they’re riding a surfboard.

  “By the way, what’s your name?”

  He snickers. “I was wondering when you were going to ask. It’s Charlie.”

  “Belmont and Charlie,” I muse.

  “Formally Charles. Our parents had high hopes, and all they got was us.”

  “Are you blue-blooded?” I ask, taking a healthier swig of my drink.

  “Royal blue.”

  I gag, nearly choking. “Are you royalty?” I cough.

  He laughs and slaps me on the back. “All good?”

  I clear the last bit of liquid out of my windpipe. “Yeah. You can move your hand now.” He’s enjoying rubbing on my back a little too much.