by Cach, Lisa
“Nope. It led me to where I am now, so it’s all good.”
She glanced at him, envious of the easy peace he’d made with his erratic path in life. It was so different from the constant second-guessing she did with her own decisions, her regrets, her should-haves. “Where do you go for the dive excursions?”
“The islands have some fantastic spots; world-famous, really.”
“What islands? The ones off the coast here, like Catalina?”
“No, I—,” he started, and then seemed to catch himself. Instead of finishing his answer, he turned the truck off Admiralty Way and down a side street towards a private marina. Tom pointed through the windshield. “We’re here!”
“We are?” she asked, surprised. They were no more than a mile from her apartment. “What’s here?”
He pulled into a space in a parking lot. The lot was edged on the water side by a tall chain link fence, in the center of which a gate with a keypad lock sat beneath a small sheltering roof; a gangway led from the other side of the gate down to the moorage.
“My brother’s boat’s here.”
“We aren’t going diving, are we?” she asked in alarm. “I don’t know how to dive!”
Tom pointed at his nose with its protruding tubes. “This wouldn’t fit in a mask.”
She felt foolish. “No, of course not.”
They got out of the truck and headed for the gate. “Don’t worry,” Tom said, punching in the code to unlock it. “I’ll teach you to dive after I’m healed up. You’ll love it, I can tell.”
Angelica didn’t miss the hint that there’d be another date. She’d been out with guys who said things like that before, though; all it usually meant was that they were careless with their promises and told women what they thought the women wanted to hear. They never followed through. Was Tom one of those guys? Half an hour ago she would have said yes. But he had a Ph.D. That didn’t speak of a careless man with no follow-through. And as she followed him past the gate and down the gangway, she wondered if she might have judged him too quickly. Maybe there was more to this shaggy, sun-bleached beach boy than she’d thought.
Today would be her chance to find out.
Chapter Four
“Prepare to come about!”
“What?” Angelica cried.
“Come about! Release the starboard sheet!”
Angelica panicked, looking frantically around the deck of the sailboat, no bed linens in sight. “Sheet? What sheet?”
“The rope, remember?” Tom hollered forward at her. He was in the cockpit of the sailboat, manning the wheel.
Her confusion cleared. “Oh, right!” Angelica threw herself up the slope of the tilted deck to the left side of the boat, reaching for the rope wound round a cleat.
“Starboard!” Tom hollered. “Starboard!”
“Isn’t this starboard?”
“That’s port! Port on the left, starboard on the right!”
Embarrassed, she scrambled to the other side and unwound the rope as Tom turned the wheel and the boat changed direction. The jib luffed, the small sail flapping in the wind.
“Haul the port sheet!” Tom yelled.
Feeling like a bumbling incompetent, she staggered back to port and winched in the sheet, the sail filling with wind and stretching tight. The sailboat tilted to port now, seawater running fast and green alongside where Angelica worked, salty spray hitting her face. They were sailing north, up the California coast.
“Good! That’s good! Tie ’er off!”
Angelica wound the end of the rope round the cleat in something vaguely approaching the same way Tom had shown her, then coiled the extra rope in a neat spiral on the deck. “Okay?” she called back to him, praying for a nod of approval.
“More than okay! You did it! Good job! I knew you’d be a natural sailor!”
Angelica stumbled back to the cockpit and flopped onto one of the blue-cushioned seats. She was sweating, her heart was racing, and her hands were shaking. She hoped to God they wouldn’t be tacking again anytime soon; she hated feeling like she didn’t know what she was doing. “You said the same thing about me and scuba diving. Your opinion obviously can’t be trusted, and I’ll drown the moment I put on a pair of fins.”
He glanced at her, his eyes flashing down to her chest, then away. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Besides, I meant it. You’d be a natural.”
She was flattered, despite herself. “What makes you think so?”
“I dunno.”
When he neither elaborated nor looked at her, she looked away herself, disappointed. The last hour had been spent preparing the 35’ sailboat for their outing, casting off, motoring slowly out of the marina, and then finally hoisting sail. It had been all work, no conversation.
“I guess it’s intuition,” Tom finally said.
She turned back to him, raising her brows.
“How I know you’d be a good diver, I mean.” His gaze flicked between her face and the bow of the boat, as if he was afraid they’d suddenly hit a whale, even though the water was empty for a half mile in any direction. “I’ve taken so many people out, taught so many, too; you get a sense of the types of personalities that would do well.”
“So what’s my personality?”
“You’re careful, for one thing. Cautious. You probably follow instructions well, and you don’t take unnecessary risks.”
She pressed her lips together. He must think her a stick in the mud.
“That’s a good thing,” he said. “Careless divers are dead divers.”
She murmured a vague agreement.
“And you’re adventurous, that’s good.”
She snorted in surprise and disagreement. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?”
“You are adventurous. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve never been sailing before, but here you are, giving it your all and learning quickly. And you’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”
“No! It’s horrible!”
He gave her a hurt look. “Really?”
Angelica chewed her upper lip, scowling, but then almost against her will became aware of the mist of sea air on her skin, the warmth of the sun, the easy pitch and roll of the boat, and above all the brilliant light that glanced off the water, the deck of the boat, and the distressingly delicious figure of Tom himself. “Maybe I’m enjoying it a little.”
He nodded. “On top of all the rest, Karen told me you’re an artist. Anyone who loves beauty will love diving. There are colors down there like you’ve never seen before.”
“Yeah?”
“Vivid, pulsating colors, and all moving to the rhythm of the ocean. The only danger for someone like you would be nitrogen narcosis.”
“What’s that?”
“An intoxication from the gas and air mix you breathe, that can leave you so entranced by your surroundings that you forget to surface in time. Beauty becomes the death of you. But don’t worry, I’d never let that happen!”
“So you’re immune to beauty?”
His gaze dropped to her chest and he visibly swallowed, then looked away. “No.”
Feeling a little cocky now, Angelica leaned back, resting her elbows on the gunwales behind her. As she did, she felt her dress chafing against her breasts. A quick glance down showed her what Tom had been so studiously avoiding. The salt spray had misted more than just her face. Her white dress had turned transparent, her dark nipples staring out from her chest right at Tom.
Embarrassment washed over her. She cursed and sat forward, pulling the fabric away from her skin. Her cheeks were burning. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she cried accusingly.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“Or you just wanted a free show!”
He gave her a chiding look. “Well, yeah, but you know I wouldn’t take advantage of it.”
“Because they’re too small to be worth staring at?”
His brows shot up. “No! They’re perfect! God, It’s all I can do not to grab
them! And kiss them! Those nipples… Christ! I want to lick them!”
Angelica gaped at him, too shocked to do anything else. As the shock and embarrassment faded, something warmer took their place, her belly clenching in hungry response to his words. Her sex felt full and heavy. “No one has ever talked to me like that before,” she said hoarsely, not sure if she should be angry, or at least pretend to be.
He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I told you not to listen to anything I said! I shouldn’t be allowed out with civilized people.”
“No, it’s okay,” Angelica said weakly. She fluffed the front of the dress as she held it away from her skin, encouraging it to dry.
Tom wedged his knee against the wheel, pulled off his T-shirt and handed it to her. “Here.”
Her throat went dry as she took in the muscled expanse of his torso. His body was not that of a gym rat, with six-pack abs, a twenty inch waist, and over-developed pectorals; no, his body was that of a man who led a heavily active life, ate right, and thought free weights were for sissies. He looked like he belonged on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, in one of Michelangelo’s frescoes.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the shirt and pulling it on. In was warm from his skin and the sun, and as she pulled it over her head she was enveloped in the musky, mineral scent of his body and inhaled deeply. A primitive part of her reveled in it. When her head popped through the neck opening a moment later she was slightly dazed.
“Better?” Tom asked.
“Yes,” she murmured, pulling the soft cloth down around her.
“Take the helm,” he said, coming round the wheel and holding it with just one hand.
“What?” she cried.
“Take it!”
She scrambled to take his place, putting her hands on the wheel. “Where are you going?” she asked in alarm, as he started down the steps into the cabin. “I don’t know what I’m doing!”
“Just hold her steady, and don’t let the sails luff. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Angelica muttered choice words under her breath and chewed her lip. He might as well have left her to fly a plane! What type of date was this, with him making her steer the boat and hoist sails? She wasn’t a sailor!
She heard a hint of ruffling, flapping noise in the sails, and a wash of hot panic dumped down her spine. Luffing! That was luffing, wasn’t it? She whined deep in her throat. Mewing in uncertainty and distress, she inched the wheel slightly to port. The ruffling noise turned to vicious snapping in the sails. Angelica cursed and gently turned the wheel the other way. Several long seconds later the sails went taut and silent. As the minutes went by and they stayed that way, she started to relax and enjoy herself.
Tom emerged from the cabin with a tray of cheeses and fruit, white wine and glasses. “Looks like you’ve got the hang of it,” he said. “Do you need a break?”
She surprised herself by shaking her head. “No.”
He smiled, looking pleased with either her or himself, she wasn’t sure which. He poured her a glass of wine and handed it over, then settled back with his own glass. “Karen said you were an artist; what kind of work do you do? Paintings?”
“I wish. I’d starve if I tried to make a living as a painter. No, I work for an animation studio.” She nibbled a piece of cheese.
“Cool! So you get to create characters like Wall-E or The Little Mermaid?”
She shook her head, resigned to explain her job as she had explained it to so many disappointed people before. “I mostly do effects animation. Things like making cats and dogs look like they’re talking, or removing wires from actors as they ‘fly.’ When I work on animated films, I’m usually doing things like creating the dust clouds from a herd of cattle, or the raindrops in a storm.”
“Oh. Sounds kind of boring.”
She grimaced. He was sure blunt. “It is.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Money,” she said, and immediately felt ashamed. “I make a good living, better than I ever could as a fine artist. Sure, the hours are long and there’s no creative freedom, but at least I can provide for myself. I have health insurance and a 401K. How many artists have that?”
“I dunno.”
“Not many,” she said fiercely. “I’m not a sell-out. I’m realistic.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
“Whatever makes you happy. So, what movie are you working on right now?”
She took a gulp of wine, thinking about how she’d spent seventy hours a week for the past three months. “You don’t want to know.”
“Of course I do!”
“It’s a romantic comedy.”
“With talking dogs?”
She shook her head. “There aren’t any special effects. I’m doing a correction.”
“To what?”
She took another gulp of wine. “To an actress’s breasts.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Breadloafing.”
“Huh?”
“Breadloafing,” Angelica repeated, and sighed, deflated. She was defensive about her job because she knew how horrible and soul-sucking it really was. “It happens when a woman gets implants that are too big for her. Instead of having a valley between her breasts, the two breasts merge into one. The valley part rises, like—“
“Rising bread,” he finished for her, looking horrified.
“It happened to this actress at the start of filming, and they couldn’t stop production for her to go get it fixed. So I’m fixing it, frame by frame.”
“And this uses your artistic talents how?” he asked, appalled.
“You do need to know how to properly shade a sphere,” she said wryly.
He shook his head.
“I admit, it’s not what I dreamt of in art school.”
“What did you dream of?”
She closed her lips and shook her head. Those dreams were too childish to share.
“Tell me,” he insisted.
“You’ll laugh.”
“Maybe,” he said. With his hair blowing in the wind and the tubes in his nose, he looked like an innocent goofball, man-god torso notwithstanding. “Won’t know until you tell me.”
She laughed. “Guess not.” What did it matter if he thought her art school fantasies were stupid? She sensed he wouldn’t think any less of her, even if he did laugh. “I wanted to be like Gauguin, who went to Tahiti to live and paint. I thought I could find an island somewhere with a low cost of living, and send my paintings to New York to be sold, and live off that income.”
“You’re kidding,” he said in obvious disbelief. He looked like she’d slapped him with a two-by-four.
“Ridiculous, I know!”
“No, it’s not. Not at all! You can do it, you know.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is! What’s so difficult? There are hundreds of islands in the Pacific where you could live cheap and paint. I even know a place where you could stay for free, on a little island that’s surrounded by some of the best diving in the world.”
She shook her head. “Maybe someday, when I have enough money socked away.”
“But you’re young and healthy now. Who knows what tomorrow holds?”
“I’ve only got myself to count on for financial support,” she countered. “I have to earn my nest egg while I can. Gauguin died penniless in Tahiti.”
“Hurrah for him! At least he did what he wanted.”
“Of syphilis,” she added.
“Oh. Well, they hadn’t invented penicillin yet. You can’t blame that on poverty.” He sat forward, earnest. “Angelica, money can be a prison. Yes, yes, I know you need a basic amount for survival, but beyond that you have to beware the golden handcuffs. The more money you make, the farther you are carried away from the work you love. I know; I’ve been there myself.”
“When you were a marine biologist?” she asked skeptically.
“Nah. I mean with the diving tou
rs. The more trips I booked, the more paperwork I had to do, the more people I had to manage, and that meant fewer chances for me to go diving.”
“So what did you do about it?”
“Hired a manager to take my place! Went back to work as an expedition leader, for a smaller salary but a better life.”
“But what type of future can you build like that? What’s going to happen to you if you get sick? Or when you get old? What if you have an accident?”
“Life’s for living. You can’t spend it locked in a protective box. You’re not a china doll; you’re not going to break if you fall down a few times. Take a chance; let me take you to the western Pacific! Take a year off, bring your paints. Talking dogs will still be here if you come back.”
Her mind filled with the possibility, and she saw herself in an open-walled thatched house with dark wood floors, jungle on three sides and a view out over turquoise waters on the fourth side. The canvas on her easel would be filled with brilliant color: tropical flowers, local people, birds… Tom, naked, standing like Adam in the Garden of Eden. And she would be his Eve.
At least, for as long as he stuck around. But when he took off, returning back here to his regular job, what would happen? She would be alone, thousands of miles from anyone who knew her, and her bank account would slowly drain. Even if she could sell her paintings when she returned to LA—assuming she had enough talent and voice to create art that was better than a gaudy tourist souvenir—she wouldn’t earn enough to make up for all the money she’d lost. She’d be lucky to cover her airfare. She’d have to find a new a job, and a new place to live. She’d have to start over.
She slowly shook her head, letting the tropical vision of paradise fade. “It’s too risky.”
“I’d take care of you.”
“No!” That was a trap too many women fell into, to their regret. “I have to take care of myself. I can’t count on some guy to do it.”
“But that’s what men and women do for each other.”
“When they’re married, maybe. But there are no promises made in one date and a wildly impulsive scheme to live the life of a starving artist in Micronesia.”
