“Lowell’s available tomorrow. If we don’t catch him then, then we’ll have to wait three more weeks,” Troy chimed in.
“What time? Do you know?” Belmont asked, wearing a severe frown. His work was taking him further away from Daisy. If only he knew where she was. If only they were together without a doubt. Then, and then only, would he have a better response to having a reputable architect onboard and a solid plan to move forward.
“Five, six…” Troy said.
“In the morning?” Belmont complained.
“No, in the afternoon.”
“Can’t do it at six,” Pete said immediately. “Aunt Thelma’s big table dinner starts at seven.”
“It’s Thursday tomorrow?” Belmont suddenly remembered receiving the informal invitation.
He’d run into Thelma at the Menemsha Fish Market last Monday. She asked him about the work he was doing in Nicaragua and then invited him to her dinner on Thursday night. He had attended a number of them. It was equivalent to getting inside of the old boys’ club. Over four hours or so of eating, drinking lots of liquor, and casual but stimulating conversation, a lot got done. Hollywood films were pitched; government policy made; and sometimes love matches were formed.
“Thelma has a guest. She’s a travel writer,” Pete said, revealing it as if he was bragging a little.
“A travel writer,” Belmont strained to say. He felt the blood leave his face. He had no doubt that Pete was speaking about Daisy. Once again, fate worked in his favor.
Pete dropped his face, embarrassed. He mumbled, “Yes, but the point is, I have a dinner tomorrow evening. Five o’clock is my cut-off time?”
“Maybe Lowell can come out earlier,” Belmont answered before Troy could. “I’ll give you a call in the morning—bright and early.”
Belmont planned to call all day long, up until dinnertime, just to make sure the architect kept his hands off of his travel writer. Plus, he had other plans, and as soon as he hopped back into the truck, he set off to fulfill them.
Chapter 14
A Slight Diversion
Just like the first morning I woke up on the island, I’m stirred by the chirping of a bird. It sounds as if it’s perched right outside my window. This time, I jump out of bed to get a look. Upon seeing the little red furry bird, I gasp.
That cannot be the same bird we saw off the trail in the forest, the Scarlet Tanager—although stranger things have happened since I arrived. Its round and fuzzy chest is facing me, and its beady black eyes watch me. It must understand that we’re separated by glass; that’s why it’s staying put.
This is the back of the house, the part that faces the thick forest. There’s no way anyone will see me standing here wearing nothing but my white bikini panties, so I stand shamelessly, remembering how relaxing yesterday evening was. I was able to put my life in perspective over soft crab and two glasses of cabernet sauvignon.
Maybe I’m not meant to fall in love and all of that stuff. Every single relationship I had with the opposite sex has taken a turn for the worst. There’s my real father, Jacques, who’s a sourpuss in general. I’m closer to Joseph, my stepfather–and that ain’t saying much. My brother, who was more of a father to me than Jacques, died. Adrian, my first and only boyfriend… Well, he betrayed me in the worst way. Thank God, because his actions forced me to do what I should’ve done a long time ago, and that’s admitting that I stayed because being with him was a facade. I could say I had a boyfriend, and that made me appear normal. I couldn’t say that I had intimacy, or trust, or even a real friend in him, though.
If the relationship between Belmont and I had worked, that would have been nice. Then I could say that I had all three–intimacy, trust, and a friend. He, in the end, wasn’t real, but at least I know now what my heart could experience if the real thing ever presented itself to me.
Suddenly my red, furry friend leaps off the branch and flies off like it’s been disturbed. Its sudden flight takes me by surprise, and then I get the feeling that I’m being watched. My eyes seek and find the culprit. Pete is standing beneath the branches, boldly gazing up at me. It takes me a moment to remember that I’m topless. I take a step backward, and then another until I fall down onto the bed.
Jeez, Thelma’s nephew saw my chee-chees! I wonder how long he’s been standing there. Then I remember that I promised to have breakfast with Thelma at seven. There’s no way I can bow out at this point. Was he being a Peeping Tom? It looked like he had on workout clothes. Maybe he was returning from an early-morning jog. There are trails throughout the forests. I’m sure that’s it.
Feeling less embarrassed, I put on a green silk bra and a green striped sundress. I take a look at myself in the full-length mirror. Belmont accused me of always appearing sexy, and I certainly don’t want that to be the case for breakfast. So I study myself at all angles. I don’t think this dress could be sexy. It fits my body, but it’s not tight. Pete will be able to see my green bra straps, but that’s more of a fashion faux pas than anything. After another final pass, I conclude that I look fine–not sexy, but quite casual.
Just to be safe, I pull my too-straight hair into a ponytail. I haven’t showered yet, but after breakfast, I’m going to wash the straight right out of my hair. Belmont was right; there is something sensual about the way my bushy, wavy locks sit on top of my head and spray down my shoulders. My current look is no frills or thrills. Maybe that will wash the sight of me standing in the window topless out of Pete’s head–if he shows up for breakfast. Maybe he’s just as embarrassed as I am.
So I slip on my flip-flops and head out to the deck for breakfast. I’ve never eaten as much as I have since yesterday afternoon. That’s because Thelma keeps feeding me. I’m starting to become like Pavlov’s dogs. She knocks to invite me over to eat and I’m instantly famished. My mouth is already watering imagining the next meal. As soon as I step outside, the smell of pancakes or waffles hits me. My stomach growls. It’s ready to metabolize at least two stacks, which is a lot for me. Adrian used to accuse me of eating like a bird on purpose. At first it bugged me because that was definitely not the case. I simply only take what I need, even when it comes to food. I think it has to do with not overstepping my boundaries and remaining tolerable to others. However, when I work, I indulge—that’s why I’m always on the road. I’m like Myrtle Wilson in The Great Gatsby. When I travel, I’m lively, extravagant, and oh so happy, like she is when she sneaks off to be with Tom Buchanan in the hip New York apartment. Everywhere else, I’m like her in George Wilson’s garage: dull, miserable, and careful.
I nearly run back to the guesthouse when I see Pete is already sitting at the table. He’s holding a Time magazine with one hand and sipping coffee out of a mug with the other. He’s behaving as if he didn’t see my breasts in the window.
“Good morning,” I say, as chipper as possible, as I sit down across from him.
He lowers the magazine. Dang it! He’s trying too hard to focus on my face. “Good morning, um…”
“Daisy,” I remind him.
“Yes! Daisy,” he says with a smile. “Now I’ll never forget it.”
“It’s okay.” I lift a hand as if to say no offense taken.
“Oh no…” He puts down the magazine. “I’m an imbecile for forgetting it. Especially since you’re someone I would like to impress.”
“Don’t worry,” I say as I scope out the spread. “I’m easily impressed.” My nose did not betray me. There are pancakes, home fries, bacon, biscuits, and spinach quiche. Thelma has sliced up many different varieties of apples and pears. I pour myself a cup of coffee and add cream and a little sugar.
“I’m not easily impressed, but you’ve impressed me,” he says hoarsely and then clears his throat.
I glance at him but only for a second. I debate whether or not I should come right out and ask him. I want to. Another thing Belmont has taught me is that it’s okay to be direct.
“So, Pete,” I start and wait for him to shift his eyes
off of the magazine. “Did you see me in the window this morning?”
A huge grin spreads across his lips.
“I thought so,” I say before he’s able to say anything.
“I didn’t mean to look. I was returning from a run, and there you were.” He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s entertained by the memory.
“I know,” I say apologetically. “I should’ve thought better.”
“Oh no,” he quickly says. “Don’t apologize. The pleasure was all mine.” He’s grinning.
I chuckle and drop my face bashfully.
“Why aren’t you two eating?” Thelma asks as she walks out onto the terrace.
“We’re waiting for you,” he and I say at the same time. We both notice that.
“Well, here I am. Now eat,” Thelma says. This morning, she’s wearing a white linen dress with a navy blue cardigan.
“I like your dress, Thelma,” I comment as I use tongs to retrieve two fluffy pancakes and a piece of spinach quiche.
“You’re not so shabby yourself.” She winks at me as she sits.
Right away she and Pete start talking about family matters. His father, her brother, is in the hospital. He has stage-three lung cancer.
She shakes her head. “I always warned him. I said, ‘Peter, those cigarettes are going to be your demise.’”
“I know, Aunt Thelma,” Pete says as if he’s heard that a million times.
“Did you know he was a lobbyist for big tobacco?” she says, focusing on me.
I shake my head while chewing. “Uh-um.”
“Both Petes are Republicans.”
“Oh, come on, Thelma!” Pete groans like he’s about to hear something else he’s heard a million times before.
“My brother, I can see, but you, Pete, you’re a stupid ass.”
I do something that’s between gasping, laughing, and choking.
Pete turns to me. As if he has to explain himself, he says, “I’m a Rockefeller Republican.”
“Just like Rockefeller, they’re all dead. You’re going to have to come to the other side or adopt a whole new philosophy,” Thelma says. “What are you, Daisy?”
“What do you mean?” I say after swallowing.
“What’s your political affiliation? We’re not coy at my table. You can speak without any backlash.”
“Oh,” I say and think really hard about the question. “I guess I’m nothing.”
“Nothing!” she nearly shouts. “Whom did you vote for in the last election?”
My eyes bounce between her face and Pete’s. They look as though they’re waiting on the edge of their seats for an answer. Believe me, I know how people get about politics and religion. I’ve certainly found myself a witness to such debates but never a participant.
“I didn’t,” I’m almost afraid to admit.
Thelma studies me. “Why not?”
I shrug dismissively. “Because I don’t buy it.”
“What don’t you buy?”
“I don’t know—politics.”
“Do you agree with Social Security?” she asks, and suddenly I feel like I’m being grilled.
I shrug again. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Medicare?”
“I guess–yes.”
“What about funding schools?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“What about a laissez-faire marketplace?” Pete asks before Thelma could throw a curve ball at me.
“Um,” I hum, pondering while turning up my nose. “At what cost?”
“Ah-ha!” Thelma exclaims as she snaps. “You’re a Democrat.”
“Okay, well it must be politicians I don’t buy into then,” I say.
“Oh darling.” Thelma pets the back of my hand. “You’re going to be a lovely addition to the table tonight.”
Pete chuckles and shakes his head. Suddenly, I’m worried. As much as I try, I can’t believe the cream rises to the top when it comes to politicians.
As we eat, Thelma’s questions never stop. Where am I from? Where did I go to school, meaning college? What are my parents like? Have I ever been married? Am I in love with whomever I’m hiding from? That’s when I decide it’s the perfect time to change the subject.
I shrug at her last question, dismissing it altogether, and say, “You used to be an artist. That’s remarkable. I would love to see your work. I love art. I actually think I’m a connoisseur of great art.”
“She used to run in Picasso’s circle,” Pete adds.
I throw him a thankful glance, and he replies with a smile. From that moment on, I learn that she did more than “run” in his circle. Some of her work is featured in Impressionist’s collections in museums around the country.
“I feel an article coming on,” I say, touching both my temples as if I’ve been struck by divine inspiration. “I know there must be dozens of artists like you, Thelma! I could feature you and a few other American artists who have hobnobbed in the inner circles and track down your work in museums around the country. Heck, around the world!”
My eyes dance excitedly. I’m ready to forget about Peru and pitch this new travel piece to Life Art magazine.
“That would be lovely,” Thelma says quietly–so quietly it kills my buzz.
“What?” I ask.
“I haven’t painted since my husband died.”
“Oh,” I sigh. I should have remembered that. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no,” she cuts me off. “I love the idea. If you want to write it, then you have my support.”
I haven’t grinned this big since the last time Belmont and I made love. “I want to write it. I’m going to write it.”
She squeezes my hand again. Thelma, Pete, and I smile at each other. For the next hour she gives me five names of other artists to feature, and she details living the life of an artist in Greenwich Village up until the late 1960s.
Pete’s cell phone rang twice during our meal. Once, the person on the other end must’ve asked who’s laughing because he answered, “Thelma’s guest.” They must’ve asked what did I, the houseguest, find so funny because Pete said, “Nothing. We’re discussing the salaciousness of art.” Then he stepped away from the table to find some privacy.
A little after ten thirty a.m., Thelma announces she has to leave because her quilting club meets at the top of the hour.
“What are you doing today?” she asks me as Pete and I help her clear the table.
“The ocean’s calm. I’m going for a swim.”
“Oh, I’ll join you,” Pete announces, boldly inviting himself.
I hide the fact that hearing that makes me shudder. I mean, he saw my breasts–both of them.
***
Pete’s cell phone rings again as we walk down the wooden steps in the cliff on our way to the beach. After he answers it, he shouts, “Now? I can’t go now. I’m not going to go now.”
“Go ahead,” I whisper, waving. “I’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head emphatically. “I’m out swimming with a friend.” After a long moment, he says, “Hello? Are you still there?” He pauses. “Okay.” He presses the on-screen hang-up button and shuts the phone down. “There.” He throws me a sexy smile.
I’ve seen that smile before. Actually, it’s the way Javar Les used to look at me when he was teaching me how to swim–only I wasn’t single then, and oh boy, did I let him know it. I’d called Adrian my fiancé, especially when Javar’s underwater hard-on nudged me in the thigh or stabbed me in the butt. This time, I have no excuses.
Should I tell him that I could never be interested in him in that way? It’s not that I don’t find him attractive or nice or mildly interesting; it’s just my heart can’t withstand another disappointment. And it’s still in love with the man I thought was my Prince Charming.
“I don’t know what’s going on with this guy,” Pete mumbles while shaking his head.
“What guy?”
“I’m working for him. He’s a piece of work.”
“How good of a swimmer are you?” he asks cheerfully, changing the subject.
“Very good,” I reply with confidence.
“A damn good swimmer or just a very good swimmer?” There he goes with that flirty smirk.
“A damn good one.” Jeez, I’m returning the expression.
“So you can save my life if I drown because I’m a shitty swimmer?”
“Then you should stay near the shore.”
We chuckle. We make it to the sand, and I catch him watching me as I take off my jeans.
“I have a swimsuit on,” I mumble. He’s leering as if he’s going to see me in nothing at all.
“It’s nice,” he says. “Especially in the back.” He curves his neck to check out my backside.
I snatch off my baggy T-shirt. “Pete, you’re nice, but I’m healing”—I press my hand over my heart—“here.”
“Sometimes the best cure can be a racy affair.”
I refuse to look down at his junk. He’s wearing tight swim trunks, and I don’t want to know if it’s swollen down there or not.
“Time to swim,” I say and trot off toward the wonderful blue sea that’s calling my name.
Pete is on my heels. He’s persistent. He’s obviously not going to give up until he gets what he wants. Javar Les still hasn’t. He calls me at least twice every two months or so to ask when will I return to London or Paris. When I fly in to either city we always meet for lunch or dinner or a night on the town. And the visit always ends with him making moves that I subtly deflect.
Pete dives in right beside me. He matches me stroke for stroke.
“This way,” he calls, and I follow him eastward.
We stay at it for a while, swimming along the shoreline. He’s a good swimmer, way better than I can ever be.
“How’s it going?” he asks as I start to run out of steam.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m just going to backstroke to dry land.”
“All right,” he says.
“You are an excellent swimmer,” I admit while puffing. “I was trying to show you up, but you showed me.”
Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA) Page 16
