Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay

by Iguana Bay [SIM-339] (lit)

  Hell of a note.

  He was falling for Elise Ramsey, Sebastian's woman. Somebody he could never have. Somebody he shouldn't even think of having.

  But regardless of what he told himself, he couldn't stop wondering if, when all this was over-despite what he'd put her through-she would even have anything to do with him.

  She was still looking up at him, her eyes wide and curious.

  "Want to go swimming?" he asked. She shook her head.

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Maybe."

  "Thanks for the ...haircut," he said, emphasizing the word haircut, a word that had taken on a whole new meaning for him. Then he smiled and brushed past her, heading for the ocean and cool, cool water:

  Maybe the swim would clear his head. Maybe then he'd be able to figure out what to do about Elise.

  Elise stood on the porch, watching Dylan swim. He was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer. His strokes were steady, rhythmic, effortless. Every time he brought up his right arm, the sunlight caught the curve of a glistening shoulder muscle. Yes, he was a good swimmer....

  Somehow, things between them had changed.

  Eyes bluer than the ocean…

  She'd thought she was safe, but now she knew differently. There was still Sebastian, still his name to hold in front of Dylan as a reminder of who she was. But now, recalling how he'd just looked at her, she felt a strange sense of excitement. She had the feeling that it had gone past Sebastian, that his name would no longer stop Dylan.

  And what both alarmed and frightened her was that she wasn't sure she would want to stop him.

  She had trusted him enough to take the pills, and he had trusted her enough to let her cut his hair. Whatever was between them could be more, if she let it. In spite of everything. In spite of whatever Sebastian had done.

  While cutting Dylan's hair she'd heard birds cooing, the sound reminding her of the big gray pigeons that made their roosts in church towers and abandoned buildings. Now she went to investigate and found, tucked in a shady area beneath a cluster of small palms, several cages.

  When she got close enough she could see that they contained pigeons, each one with a colored band around its leg. Homing pigeons? They looked so out of place here on a tropical island. Pigeons were city dwellers. They belonged where it was frigid in the winter and stiflingly hot in the summer.

  With the milling birds and the roar of the ocean to cover his approach, she didn't hear Dylan come up beside her. Suddenly he was simply there. But then, she knew how silently he could move.

  Faded cutoffs; damp and slung low across a flat, hard stomach, were all he wore. Droplets of water clung to the ends of his hair, sparkling in the sun. A few dropped free and trickled down his chest.

  She knew how that skin felt under her fingers. Warm and satiny smooth ...

  He leaned over and opened one of the cages. A bird sidestepped onto his finger and he lifted it out. "This here's Blue. Blue, meet Elise."

  She smiled. "Nice to meet you."

  He ran a knuckle gently down the bird's feathered back, then returned it to the cage.

  "And this is Josie." He pointed. "That one with the black head is Sheila."

  The bird pecked at his finger and he jerked away. "As you can see, Sheila's a cranky bitch. She has her reasons, though. Pigeons mate for life. Sheila's guy, Bermuda Jack, got caught in a storm last year. Never made it home. When he was around, Sheila was one of my gentlest birds."

  "How sad." Elise suddenly felt embarrassingly close to tears.

  "Yeah, I felt bad about it and tried to introduce her to other gentlemen, but she wouldn't have anything to do with them." He shrugged and shut the cage.

  "The other three aren't mine. They belong to a friend, Skeeter, and his kid Jason. They bring them out here and I set them loose."

  "They bring them here?"

  "Yeah. Homing pigeons only fly one direction-home."

  "I thought they flew both ways."

  "Nope. Lots of people think so, but they don't."

  "Do you use them for messages?"

  "Just as a hobby. We see how long it takes them to get home from certain points. Blue here is my fastest. With a prevailing wind, he can make it home from the main-land in under two hours."

  He showed her how to put a message in a tiny capsule and slip it on the band that went around the bird's leg.

  And in the process he showed-her how gentle his hands could be, how gentle he could be.

  When he was relaxed like this, when the darkness fell away, she knew she was seeing a younger Dylan. The Dylan he had been before something had happened to change him...

  Chapter 11

  The next few days passed surprisingly peacefully. There was no mention of Sebastian or the upcoming trial. In fact, not a word was spoken about why Elise was on Iguana Bay.

  As Dylan had promised that first day, her stay became a vacation. She was taken on a tour of the island, went beachcombing, and five days after she had walked out of Sebastian's hotel, Dylan took her fishing.

  They had anchored above a coral reef where the water was sparklingly clear and schools of neon-striped fish darted. Dylan was leaning back in the pilot's swivel chair, bare feet propped against the siderail. The fishing pole was attached to a metal brace, so his hands were free, and he had locked them behind his head. A white fishing cap advertising Vaca Key Marina was pulled down to meet dark sunglasses, his long, Jean-clad legs crossed at the ankles. Today, instead of the usual dark T-shirt, he was wearing a white one.

  Before leaving Iguana Bay he'd taken the scissors and refashioned the jeans Elise had been wearing, promising that he'd buy Skeeter's son a new pair, assuring her that Jason had long outgrown them anyway. Then he'd cut the sleeves out of a light blue T-shirt that had the words Dark Sky across the front. She'd asked him what it meant, and he'd told her Dark Sky was an association that was fighting light pollution, explaining that it was getting harder and harder to see the stars because of all the lights in the world.

  And so she'd come to know that the astronomy books were his. Apparently Dylan was a dreamer.

  Or had been.

  Since her skin was pale, Dylan had insisted she use sunblock. Then he'd slapped a fishing cap like his on her head-so she wouldn't get sunstroke, he'd told her. She'd put on the cutoffs and the Dark Sky T-shirt, tucked her hair under the cap and grabbed a pole.

  No phone ringing, no television, no newspaper. A dream vacation. People saved their whole lives to take a vacation like this. The whole situation was crazy, but she was beginning to love it.

  The warmth of the sun on her face and the repetitious sound of the waves were seductive, stupor inducing. Her eyes drifted shut.

  With her eyes closed, her other senses were heightened. She could feel the warm tropical air move across her skin, intermittently relieved by gusts of ocean-cooled air. And the sounds... She hadn't realized how much the ocean sounded like a train, so constant, so ceaseless... The wind whistled past her ears, sounding like someone blowing lightly across the round glass lip of a soda bottle.

  Later she roused herself enough to say, "When I was little, my grandmother used to take me fishing all the time. But I've never fished in the ocean."

  "My dad used to take me," Dylan said. "Now he's in a nursing home, so I take him fishing every other Sunday." There was a hint of sadness in his voice.

  She thought about the photo in the collage. Dylan and his father.

  "Is your grandmother still around?" he asked, reeling in his line.

  "No. She died last year."

  "That's too bad. How about your parents?" he asked as he cast the line out again. "Where do they live?"

  It didn't bother Elise to be asked about her parents, but it made other people feel ill at ease. From experience she'd found that it was best to just spit it out. State the facts.

  "My mother drowned when I was little, and I never knew my dad."

  He was quiet for a moment-thoughtfully quiet. "That must have been tough."

&nb
sp; "Oh, I had my Grandma Max. We were really close. I was lucky."

  "My mother died when I was twelve, but I still had my dad and two sisters."

  "I always wanted a sister," she said, not quite able to keep a wistful tone from creeping into her voice.

  "I don't see them as often as I'd like. They're both married. Peggy lives in Hawaii, Linda in California."

  "Do you get together for Christmas?" She was trying to picture Dylan in a traditional family setting and finding the idea fascinating.

  "We usually go to Linda's." He lifted his cap from his head, then repositioned it. And it occurred to her that something had changed. She sensed an undercurrent, sensed that he was suddenly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.

  "This last Christmas I didn't go anywhere," he said. "I was a little... busy."

  The way he said it made her wonder if he could possibly have been in jail.

  They ended up catching three fish weighing around two pounds each. They'd almost gotten four, but one of Elise's got away.

  She'd hadn't wanted to stop, but Dylan called it quits.

  "You've had enough sun," he told her.

  When they got back to the island she was glad to see it. It seemed a little like coming home, a thought she quickly pushed away.

  "Why do they call it Iguana Bay?" she asked as they walked across the sand to the beach house. "Are there iguanas here?"

  "Not that I know of."

  He bent down and scooped up a shell, examined it, then handed it to Elise. It was a conch, bright pink and pale beige.

  His chest was bare, his T-shirt dangling from the waistband of his faded jeans, his cap rolled and jammed into a back pocket, the fishing poles resting on one shoulder.

  And that was when it hit her like a blow. Standing there looking at him, three fish dangling from a stringer in her hand, she realized that she was falling for Dylan Davis. A criminal. A felon.

  A dreamer.

  "It went by that name when I bought the place. I've seen log books dating back to the 1840s, and it was called Iguana Bay then. One theory is that Darwin may have come here after visiting the Galapagos and brought some marine iguanas with him that didn't survive." He shrugged. "Then again, maybe somebody just wanted to name an island Iguana Bay..."

  She didn't say anything. She just stood there, staring at him, feeling buffeted by the confused emotions running through her.

  "Hey..." He reached out and touched her chin, slanting her face up to his. "You okay?" His eyebrows drew together. "I knew we shouldn't have stayed out that long. You're not used to the sun." He ran a finger down her arm, checking for sunburn.

  She gripped the shell tighter, the little points jabbing into her palm, bringing her around. "I'm okay. Just a little headache."

  He took the fish, from her. "Go take a cool shower while I clean these."

  She managed a weak smile. "The iguana thing-it's a great story, even if it might not be true."

  Suddenly she wanted to tell him the truth. Tell him who she was. The words formed in her head, getting themselves in order. Then, she stopped. Suddenly, she realized that she didn't want to tell him because she was afraid he might take her back.

  And she didn't want to leave. Not yet. The trial was two days away. There was plenty of time. Tomorrow. She would explain it all tomorrow...

  That night Elise helped Dylan with the dishes. He washed and she dried.

  The kitchen was cramped; it looked as if it had been added on to the beach house as an afterthought. The cabinets were made of rough, unfinished pine, the countertops of cream-colored Formica.

  "Just stuff it in anyplace," Dylan said when he saw she was looking for a place to put the pan she'd just finished drying.

  She opened a low cupboard, but it was full, taken up with a box of junk that appeared to have come from someone's desk. It was crammed full of files and file holders, pencil holders and wooden plaques. On top of everything was a policeman's badge.

  Looking closer, Elise saw that the badge had Dylan's name on it.

  She reached into the box and picked it up. She held it in her hand and stared at it.

  "Did you find-" Dylan's voice broke off.

  Elise slowly straightened, badge in hand. Confused, she looked up at Dylan. His eyes went from her to the badge, then back to her.

  For Elise, nothing connected, nothing made sense.

  "You're a cop.. . ?"

  Wariness flashed across his dark features; then the mask came down. "I used to be an undercover detective." He wiped his hands on his faded jeans, leaving two dark streaks across his thighs.

  A detective.

  She was having a hard time grasping it. Her mind struggled to shift gears. All along she'd been thinking of him as a criminal, someone who'd taken a wrong turn in life, who worked on the other side of the law.

  She could feel the metal edges of the badge. The pin pricked her palm. She extended her arm toward him, the badge cradled in her open hand. "I don't understand."

  "I'm what is commonly referred to as a burnout." He crossed his arms, white T-shirt pulling tightly across his chest and biceps. "It happens to cops. They hit the wall, reach a point when they can't function as a cop anymore. They lose the edge."

  "You had to quit?"

  "I was told to take a leave of absence. A long one. They sent me to a psychiatric hospital for cops who've gone off the deep end."

  His words were spoken in a neutral, emotionless voice that somehow seemed worse than if he'd shown anger.

  "I was supposed to bare my soul to this three-piece-suit guy, a guy who'd grown up with punctual brunches and teas, bedtime promptly at 10:30 every night, somebody who'd never seen as much as a flea get wasted. He had no idea where I was coming from."

  "How long were you there?"

  "Two months." He raked his hands through his hair. He was hurt. Angry. Maybe a little ashamed.

  "Listen..." He paused, swallowed. "I don't want to talk about this."

  Her very words to him only days ago. But this was different. This involved much more than simple embarrassment.

  She looked back down at the badge, running a finger across the raised letters and the emblem. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business, anyway."

  She turned and put the badge back in the box. As she did so, she saw the top plaque, moldy and dusty from neglect.

  An award for valor, for saving a fellow officer's life.

  Her throat became tight. Her eyes stung.

  She was still staring at the plaque when she felt Dylan put her gently but firmly aside. He bent down and pulled out the box. "I forgot this stuff was even here. Otherwise I would have pitched it a long time ago." He straightened, and, with the box in his arms, he went out the kitchen door. Through the screen, she could see him striding purposefully toward the rusty trash, barrel.

  Was that what he'd done with everything? Was that why there weren't any possessions littering his home, no clues to his past? Had he thrown them all away?

  "Dylan!"

  Suddenly she was moving. She shoved open the door and tore after him, her bare heels digging into the sand, her feet slipping, unable to get a good hold.

  "Dylan! No! Don't throw it away!"

  But she was too late.

  He was already dumping the entire contents into the rusty barrel. He shook the box, making sure it was empty, then tossed it in, too.

  By the time Elise reached him, he had a matchbook in his hand, ready to strike a match. With a slap, she knocked the matches to the ground. She caught a glimpse of his startled face before she turned and pulled the empty box from the barrel, dropping it near her feet. The next thing was one of the plaques. With her hand, she wiped off the ashes, then put the plaque in the box. She pulled out another one and wiped it off.

  "You can't just throw this stuff away," she said despite a raw throat and tear-blurred eyes. "It's part of your life, part of you."

  She pulled out the last plaque-there were five in all, all for heroic deed
s.

  She still hadn't found the badge, and she panicked. With the fingers of both hands, she began clawing at the rubble.

  "What the hell's the matter with you?" Dylan grasped her by the shoulders and urged her back. "Come away from there. You're going to cut yourself."

  She was crying. She knew she was crying, because everything was one big blur. That was why she couldn't find the damn badge. With sooty fingers she impatiently dashed at her tears, then tried to shake off his hands.

  "Elise, come on, before you hurt yourself."

  "I have to find your badge."

  "I'll find it for you."

  She sniffled and looked up at him.

  "I'll find it," he repeated..

  She nodded and stepped back, crossing her arms tightly in front of her, hugging them to her.

  "Let me see your hands first. Come on."

  She held them out to him, dirty palms up. He took both of them in his firm clasp and examined them. Apparently satisfied that she hadn't cut herself, he let go and turned to the barrel. A couple of seconds later he pulled out the badge and held it up for her to see, then tossed it into the box with the other things she'd rescued.

  "Is that everything?" she asked. "Everything important?"

  "Yes."

  "Swear?"

  With one finger, he drew an imaginary X on his chest. "Cross my heart." He smiled, and his smile was a little boyish, a little wistful. Then he grasped her by both arms, his face becoming serious. "It was just some old junk."

  "No, it wasn't."

  "You have to let go of the past or it drags you down."

  She knew her face was smudged with soot, but she didn't care. She looked up into his amber eyes, feeling a tearing sadness deep in her soul. "There are some things you have to hang on to. You can't throw away a part of yourself...." Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together to make them stop.

  Suddenly he pulled her to him, pressing her cheek against his chest, against his heart. His hand stroked her hair.

  She hurt. She hurt for him.

  "This is really something." He laughed, and the mocking sound rumbled under her ear. "I can't even be a good kidnapper."