Virgin Cay

by Basil Heatter

  Robinson was not an especially sentimental man but he could not help but feel saddened by this old hull on the beach. It brought back with almost unbearable immediacy the memory of Charee. For five years he had known and loved the little ship with her gleaming black hull and green bottom and white cabin and oiled fir deck. They had been through so much together and had saved each other’s lives a dozen times or more. It was hard now to remember which had been the best of it—the landfall after weeks at sea, lights going on along the shore, creeping into a strange new harbor, the adventures of a city, new faces and new women—or the sudden knowledge one morning that he had had enough, and hoisting anchor and making ready for sea and Charee responding to the first long swells like a colt fresh out of stable and pretty much sailing herself under that beautifully balanced rig. The stout little ship had never failed him; in the end it was he who had let her down.

  Well it was still the only life for him and he would do anything to get it back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Clare Loomis held the narrow golden head of Dino di Buonaventura in both hands and kissed him passionately on the lips. Dino permitted himself to be kissed but displayed no particular ardor in return. When she had released him he got up and mixed himself a drink of Clare’s whiskey and took one of her cigarettes out of a walnut box on the coffee table.

  Her face hardened as she watched him and she said, “I have mixed emotions about you, Dino. I’m not sure if I love you or despise you. Right now I think it’s the latter.”

  “That too is a part of love, my sweet,” he answered complacently.

  She controlled her anger long enough to ask, “How was Stanley’s party?”

  “Like all of Stanley’s parties. Everyone drinks too much and since none of them are too bright in the first place they become even stupider as the evening progresses.”

  “If you feel that way why do you go?”

  “It is my profession. When one wishes to paint portraits of the idle rich one must go where the idle rich are.” He sighed and said, “On a night like this I sometimes think the only solution for me is to marry a very rich woman.”

  “Was there anyone interesting at the party?”

  “A fellow named Robinson. A sailor. It appears his ship sank in a storm and he was forced to swim ashore.”

  “Really. How exciting. What’s he like?”

  “About what you might expect. A big rugged outdoor type.”

  “He sounds attractive.”

  “I suppose he might be, if you like the type. But I think you once told me you hate boats.”

  “I do. That is, anything smaller than the ‘Queen Mary.’”

  “Well there you are, my love. What would you talk about?”

  “You never know,” Clare replied airily. “We might have something in common.”

  He smiled at her above the rim of his glass and asked, “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  “Of course. Am I succeeding?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not one little pang?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then tell me who else was at the party.”

  “I told you, the usual crowd. I left early.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I went back to the hotel and napped for a while. I slept a bit too long, which is why I was late getting here.”

  Her mouth was compressed with anger and her eyes had drawn up into slits. She looked almost ugly. “You are a damned filthy lying pig,” she grated. “You know very well you took Gwen to Stanley’s party and that afterwards you went on to the Masons’ together.”

  “Where do you get so much information, Clare? Are you perhaps an undercover agent for the CIA?”

  “This is a small island, you fool. There are no secrets here. Ten minutes after you showed up with Gwen, my best friends were calling with the latest bulletin. They couldn’t wait to twist the knife.”

  “Well, what of it? Suppose I did go with Gwen. After all, she is your cousin, isn’t she? It’s all in the family.”

  “She’s hardly more than a child, Dino.”

  “I’m not so old myself.”

  Her motion was like a cobra’s strike as she launched herself forward and slapped his cheek. His face went pale. The angry red imprint of her hand showed clearly on his skin. His look was so venomous that for a moment she felt a genuine thrill of fear.

  “Puttana sporca,” Dino said in a low voice. “And just in case you don’t understand I will translate for you. It means filthy old whore. And that’s what you are, Clare. The mother of all whores.”

  Tears had formed in her eyes. “Forgive me, Dino,” she begged.

  “Forgive you nothing. We are through.”

  Anger swept her face again. “What do you mean, through? Do you think you can get along without me? Who were you before I picked you up in New York and introduced you to the right people?”

  “That may have been true at one time but now that the introductions have been accomplished I think I can manage very nicely.”

  “You’re talking like a conceited fool. They’ll toss you back into the gutter in no time. Once you’ve run through this little group here how many commissions do you think you’ll get? You need me, Dino. You need my contacts.”

  The color had returned to his face. He smiled and said, “Not any more.”

  “So that’s it. It’s Gwen now, is it? You want something a little younger and fresher. All the time we’ve been lovers and all the plans we made together go down the drain now, and just because some little milk-faced sop comes along. If nothing else I gave you credit for good taste, Dino, but perhaps I was wrong. Do you think that child can give you the same thing you get from a real woman? Or have you found that out already? Maybe that’s why you’re here tonight, eh?”

  “I appreciate your concern, Clare, but you don’t have to worry about me on that score. I will be well taken care of. Your little cousin is all woman. No, the reason why I came tonight was to tell you that I am going to marry Gwen. We thought you ought to be the first to know.”

  “Marry! And live on what? Love? Don’t make me laugh, Dino. You’re not the type. Any more than you’re the type to go back to living in that Third Avenue dump. Without me you couldn’t make even half a living. Why even the clothes you have on were bought by me.”

  “I grant you all that, my dear, but you have overlooked something. Gwen’s father is a very wealthy man. He is sixty-eight years old and has already suffered a severe coronary. I don’t wish him any harm but I doubt very much that he can last more than a year at the outside. Gwen is an only child and when he dies she will come into something like ten or twelve million dollars carefully invested in the very best blue-chip stocks. I think that will be some compensation for her inexperience. And even that inexperience, I might add, I find refreshing.”

  If he had expected another explosion from her, he was disappointed. She passed in front of the mirror and touched her hair lightly. When she looked back at him all the ugliness of her rage was gone. She was very beautiful again. Despite himself he felt a renewal of desire. She was an extremely accomplished woman in bed and almost completely his type. He had always had an interest in somewhat older women. His first affair, as a schoolboy, had been with the mother of his best friend. She had been very grateful and had lavished gifts on him and he had learned to enjoy the adulation that older women provided.

  That yearning for him that gave him such a pleasant sense of self-importance was clearly evident in Clare now. Her rage had passed and she wanted to go to bed with him. She was ready to accept him on his own terms. Well, why not? One more time. She had, after all, been good to him. And it was true that without Clare he would never have met Gwen.

  “So you would really marry a woman for money, Dino,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Of course.”

  “Any woman?”

  “Well, almost any woman. Of course she would have to be reasonably chic and presentable. Otherwise it wou
ld be too embarrassing.”

  “What about me?”

  “Clare, my darling, if you had ten million dollars I would marry you like a shot.”

  “Sooner than Gwen?”

  “Of course,” he lied. “But what is the use of talking? Unhappily…”

  “Unhappily I am only the older and poorer cousin of a very rich young girl,” she said, completing the sentence for him. “But do you know something, Dino? It would be better if the money were left to me. I would know what to do with it.”

  “I believe that, Clare.”

  “What a shame that I’m so poor. We could be so right for each other.”

  She had moved closer. Her perfume enveloped them both. He saw the beginnings of tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. Despite all the fiendishly expensive lotions she indulged in, her youth was slipping away. When he left her she would grow old rapidly. He enjoyed the thought of it. The gap between them would increase with the years. When he was still a comparatively young man Clare would be in her forties. And she hated age more than anything else. Age and poverty. He could almost feel sorry for her except that he did not, after all, really owe her anything. He had paid all his debts in bed and he would pay the last one now.

  She put her head against his cheek and said, “You’re such a bad boy. A really terrible boy. I ought to spank you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?”

  He let his hands slide down over her hips and squeeze her buttocks. “In moderation,” he said, smiling at his own image in the mirror.

  He balanced the champagne glass on his naked brown chest. Clare leaned over him so that one of her breasts just touched the glass. She was justifiably proud of her bosom. She might be getting a little thick in the waist but her legs and breasts were still exceptionally fine. She let the point of her nipple touch the icy liquid and then she moved it quickly to Dino’s lips.

  “A vintage year,” he said.

  “Ah, Dino.”

  It required some effort to hide his annoyance and faint disgust. Now that it was over he really wanted to be up and showered and on his way. This sort of love play after the act was all right only if the girl was exceptionally inviting. Then there would be the slow, delicious reawakening of desire. But with Clare there was nothing new about it. He found that going to bed with Clare now required a little effort on his part. What he really wanted was to be alone. He was in need of sleep and he knew that Clare would not let him sleep. She wanted him again a second time but he could not force himself to it. Yet if he tried to leave immediately she might go into another rage and he did not think he could stand another scene just now.

  She was choking him. He pushed her away and reached for a cigarette.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked coyly.

  The eternal feminine question. It wasn’t enough that they possessed your body; they had to get inside your mind. “Of you,” he answered dutifully.

  “I love you so terribly, Dino, I think I would kill you if you ever really tried to leave me. But first I would torture you so that you would never be any good for anyone else. I would take a small sharp knife and cut off this… and this. Or perhaps I would use my teeth instead. I have very sharp teeth.”

  “Ouch! Stop that.”

  “Poor little boy. I will kiss it to make it better.”

  “You’re really a witch, Clare. A regular Borgia.”

  “I would like to have been a Borgia. How simple it would be to slip a little poison into a glass of wine for my dear little cousin.” She nibbled at Dino’s ear and whispered, “You have given her up, haven’t you?”

  He was tired of the game. It would have been nice if he and Clare could have parted as friends but with a bitch like this that was impossible. She refused to accept reality and she would continue to chase after him until Gwen learned the truth about their relationship. Gwen was still young enough, still provincial enough to be shocked by the knowledge that he had been Clare’s lover and that Clare had supported him. Once they were married it would not matter, but what if Clare went to Gwen now and told her the whole story? Gwen might not believe it, but on the other hand, if she did, it might destroy all his plans. And it was just the sort of thing Clare was capable of. Well, if it happened he would have to convince Gwen that Clare was insane, mad with frustration. And perhaps she was. There were times when he was aware of a furious intensity in her that was really frightening. But he had no patience with her any more and he would have to end it. “No,” he said in answer to her question. “I have not given her up.”

  He was relieved to see that he was not in for another outburst. Instead she drew away slightly and leaned on her elbow and asked casually, “Tell me, Dino, are you superstitious?”

  “A little,” he admitted. His parents had come from Sicily and the dark roots of old Sicilian blood feuds were still twisted in his mind.

  “Then I will tell you something. Something that is as true as the fact that you are here now. I can see your future clearly and I tell you you will never marry her.”

  He got out of bed and began pulling on his clothes. She did not say good-bye and she did not see him to the door.

  When he stepped out of the house the ocean wind was fresh on his face. He was glad to be away from her. She really was, he told himself, quite impossible and perhaps more than a little insane.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clare’s voice was half lost in the rumble of the surf. Robinson waited for it to come again. “Gus,” she called in her small husky voice.

  “Where are you?”

  “Over here.”

  She was on the seaward side of the wreck, her back against one of the smashed ribs. As he sat down beside her she said, “You’re late.”

  “I couldn’t break away. Walker kept insisting on one more drink.”

  “Were you surprised when I walked in on you like that?”

  “I’ve been sort of expecting you to show up.”

  Actually he had been startled when he saw her. Three days had gone by without a word and he had decided that the whole business of the twenty thousand, like her quick, avid lovemaking, had been little more than a dream. Then she had come strolling into Walker’s house in her immaculate pink linen and kissed dear old Stanley on the top of his skull and said, “It’s Mr. Robinson, isn’t it? I’ve heard about you. What a shame about your boat.”

  They had chatted about nothing special until Walker left the room and then she had said, “How are you, Gus?”

  “I’m all right. And you?”

  Ignoring his reply she whispered, “Can you meet me tonight?”

  “I guess so. Where?”

  “Ten o’clock at the wreck.”

  When Walker came back she rambled on about people they both knew and then said, “I must run now, Stanley darling. It’s been so nice meeting you, Mr. Robinson. I do hope we’ll see each other again.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Perhaps Stanley will bring you over to my house sometime.”

  “If I do he’ll just fall hopelessly in love with you like all the rest of us,” Walker said gallantly. “And by the way, what do you hear from Binky?”

  “Not a blessed word.”

  “Is he still off skiing?”

  “I suppose so. The last I heard he was in Vermont and I wrote him a letter there encouraging him to go on to Kitzbuhl. I know the most divine little Viennese countess there that Binky would go absolutely out of his head for. Anyway, I hope the snow is wonderful and he stays away a long time. If he comes back here I’ll either have to move out of his house or start living in sin.”

  “I thought you were already,” Walker said.

  Clare laughed and as she passed through the door she said, “You know I’m saving myself for you, darling.”

  Walker saw her out to the car. When he came back he looked tired. He slumped down in his chair like an old man. The tremendous daily intake of liquor was beginning to catch up with him. The network of veins in his nose seemed more prominent than
ever.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” Walker said.

  “What’s her story?”

  “The usual thing. Married. Divorced. Married again. Widowed. Left with a modest income. Runs with a younger crowd. About par for the course. When you sum it up that way it sounds pretty empty, doesn’t it?”

  “Everybody’s story does. Take mine, for instance. Cornell. Crewed. Loved boats. Never settled down. Lost boat. Kaput.”

  Walker stared at him bleakly and said, “Mine is even shorter. Had money. Boozed. Lost money. Died.”

  There was an unspoken bond between them. In a way that would never be apparent to either one they were much alike. They had both run away from the world, and although the sea Walker had elected to sail on was compounded of Scotch instead of salt water, the end results were much the same. They were both lost and lonely and turning aimlessly in the same remote eddy.

  “I’ll tell you something, old boy,” Walker said. “I envy you.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “I guess it’s just that you’ve got more of everything. More height. More hair. More youth. More strength. More guts.”

  “Well there’s one thing I certainly haven’t got more of and that’s money.”

  “Money is crap.”

  “Unquestionably, but the only people who can afford to believe it are those with either no money or too much.”

  “I’ll tell you about money, Gus. My old man was Walker of Walker Tool & Die. He started off pouring pig iron in a mill and worked his way up to be boss of his own outfit. Somewhere along the way he paused just long enough to marry and spawn a kid named Stanley. Like most self-made men he wanted the best of everything for his son. He hired the most expensive nursemaids to turn him into a mollycoddle and every time the young snotnose sneezed there was a rush call for two specialists. Finally young Stanley went off to a good eastern prep school and while he was there the old man died of hypertension and a few other assorted ailments.