by Tom Savage
“What about a car for your stay in Florida?”
“Done. Hertz, right?”
She nodded. “Good. The other car will be in Palm Beach. The two round-trip tickets and the other things you’ll need will be in the glove compartment. Miami—San Juan: Pam Am. San Juan—St. Thomas: LIAT. I used the names you wanted. There’ll be a car at the airport here. Avis. I used a third name for that. Petrillo: you’ll have black hair by then, so I figured you could be Italian. I’ll write down the address in Palm Beach where the car will be waiting as soon as I know it.”
“Who’s putting the car in Palm Beach?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “A friend. A woman I, shall we say, did some time with.”
He shrugged. “As long as you can trust her. Listen, there may be a problem.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Lisa. There’s some question as to whether she’s going to Connecticut.”
A sharp chill of panic coursed through her. “You said she went every year for Labor Day!”
“I know, but Kay thinks maybe—”
She leaned forward. Reaching up, she clutched his upper arm, digging her nails into his flesh. “I want Lisa out of here. Otherwise, it’s off. We’ll have to postpone—”
“No,” he said firmly. “It has to be Labor Day.”
She forced herself to look up at him. The pale-blue eyes stared intently down at her, a study in determination. She had a sudden vision of them on the Kay, two months before, planning everything. He’d had that same look in his eyes then. She knew it had to be Labor Day, and why.
“Okay,” she said, removing her hand and lowering her gaze. “Just be sure she’s on that plane with you.”
He nodded. Then, with a swift glance toward the house, he reached out to stroke her hair.
“I want to see you,” he breathed. “Away from here. I want to make love to you.”
She pulled away from his touch. “Later. After it’s over. We’ll have time for all that.”
A sudden grin lit up his face. She was acutely aware of his eyes; his platinum hair glinting in the sun; the massive, muscular body inches from hers. She could smell aftershave, something with bay rum in it. He’d tried to make love to her once, on the Kay, but Greg’s presence had precluded it.
He leaned even closer to her.
“We’ll have time for a lot of things,” he said, and there was laughter in his voice. “Eleven million things, to be exact. And that’s not counting the house.”
She regarded him for a long moment. Then her gaze fell to the loveseat beside them, to the discarded book lying there.
“The apple was made of solid gold,” she said, “but that meant nothing to the goddesses. They wanted it for other reasons.”
His smile faded, and the pale eyes darkened.
“I love you,” he said. “You know that.”
Now, she knew instinctively, it was her turn to take the initiative. With an effort, she grinned and took his hand.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I know. Now get out of here.”
He squeezed her hand, and his smile reappeared. Then he turned and walked across the lawn in the direction of the driveway.
She stood there, her hand on the driftwood fence, watching him go. Tall, she thought. He’s so tall, so blond, so beautiful. . . .
And such a liar.
Then Lisa was running out of the house and across the redwood deck. She turned toward the little girl, and after a moment she began to smile.
“Patio!” Lisa called as she approached with the sketchpads and the soda can clutched in her hands.
“Yard,” came the reply.
“Yard—”
“Lawn.”
“Lawn—”
“Mower.”
Lisa giggled and rolled her eyes. “Mower—”
“Grass.”
“Grass—”
“Green.”
“Green—”
The woman thought a moment.
“Jealousy,” she said.
“Jealousy,” Trish exclaimed. “That’s all it is, plain and simple. I just can’t stand it!”
Kay, lying on the adjacent beach chair under her favorite palm tree, followed Trish’s gaze and nodded. The girl in the white bikini running down the beach could not be more than twenty. The long, tanned limbs; the slender waist and generous hips; the glistening braid flying out behind her: if only Sandra were here, she mused. She could tell us which film star that reminds me of. . . .
“I know what you mean,” she said. “Don’t forget, I’m the one with Diana Meissen living in her house.”
Trish sat up, swung her legs off the chaise, and leaned toward her friend. “Darling, is something the matter?”
Kay looked over at her friend and read the concern in her expression. No, she thought. I’m not going to tell her about the house on the beach. The whole thing would sound paranoid at best. I am not one of those hysterical women, always imagining worst-case scenarios and flying into rages.
She shook her head and forced a smile.
“Bo Derek,” she said, watching as the lovely young woman in the white bikini floated by along the shoreline before them. She could almost hear the strains of Ravel above the roll of the surf. . . .
“Well, don’t underestimate yourself,” Trish said. “If I’m not mistaken, you have an admirer—a young admirer—over there by the pool. He’s been watching you for the last fifteen minutes.”
Kay turned her head for a discreet look. She saw him immediately: tall and lanky, with shaggy, sun-bleached hair, clad only in the brief black Speedo. Their eyes locked for a moment, then he flashed a grin and began to walk toward her.
“Oh, him,” she sighed. “I’m afraid not, Trish. Another slave of the beauteous Diana.”
The man named Bob arrived next to her.
“Hello,” he said. “We haven’t really met, but my name is—”
“Bob,” Kay supplied, smiling at him.
His eyes widened, and the klieg-light grin returned. “Uh, yeah. Bob Taylor. No relation. I’m staying here at the hotel, and I’ve seen you around a few times. . . .”
“Kay Prescott,” Kay said. “This is Patricia Manning.”
“Hello, Bob,” Trish cooed, reaching up to smooth a jet-black lock into place.
“Hi,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Prescott.”
“Missus,” Kay said.
“Oh. Mrs. Prescott. Sorry. It’s just that I noticed you talking to a friend—an acquaintance—of mine—”
“Diana Meissen,” Kay said, amused by his discomfort. “Yes.”
He nodded. “Yeah, well, she—uh—left before I could give her my number in New York. We’re both from New York, you know, and I thought when I got back there myself—”
Before Kay could stop her, Trish leaned forward. “Oh, Diana is—”
Kay’s warning glance shut her up.
“Diana is a lovely girl,” she finished for her.
He looked from one to the other of them. ‘Yes, well, I was wondering if you knew how to get in touch with her.”
Kay leaned back on the chaise. For no reason of which she was immediately aware, she stretched her long legs to their full length and casually brought up her right hand to rest behind her head. She smiled lazily up at the young man.
Then it happened, just as she had been unconsciously hoping it would. Bob, standing over her, dropped his gaze to rake the length of her body. She could tell that it was an appreciative glance, and she was delighted at the sudden blush as he remembered himself and quickly returned his eyes to her face.
He was the answer to an unacknowledged prayer. She’d been feeling odd in recent days, not at all like herself. She thought of Adam, whose lovemaking had been so cold, so perfunctory, the last few times. Beauty, Adam had said, was something we should never take for granted. She had been feeling unheautiful, undesirable, but this young man had reminded her. He obviously thought she was attractive.
More im
portant, he thought Diana was attractive.
“You understand, Bob,” she said, “that I couldn’t just hand over such information—assuming I had it, of course. But perhaps you could tell me how long you’ll be here at Bolongo, in case I happen to speak with her.”
The young man smiled and nodded. “Sure. I’m here for a while. At least a couple of weeks. It all depends on my—employer.”
“What do you do?” Trish asked.
He stared at her a moment. Then he looked up at the rows of condominium projects that lined the hills above the beach. Waving in their direction, he said, “Development. Real estate.”
The two women nodded.
“Well,” Kay said, gazing dreamily—she hoped—up at him through her lashes, “I’ll see what I can do. About Diana.”
“Great,” he said, fixing her once more with the incandescent smile. “Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you. Both of you.”
With that he turned and loped away down the beach.
Trish sighed, her eyes on his receding form. “My, he certainly has a beautiful—personality. But what’s with all the secrecy, Kay? Why didn’t you simply tell him—”
“I couldn’t,” Kay interjected. “I saw Diana with him once. I don’t think she’d appreciate my disclosing her whereabouts to him. Not without her permission.”
Trish shook her head in disbelief.
“How very peculiar of her,” she decided. “What is she, a nun? Let me tell you: if that young man should ever ask, you hereby have permission to disclose my whereabouts!”
They laughed together and sipped their planter’s punch. Kay lit a cigarette.
“Seriously, though,” she told her friend, “you can’t be too careful. You never know who anybody is.”
Trish gave her a withering glance. “Oh, for sure! His name isn’t Bob Taylor and he isn’t in real estate. He’s actually the Kissing Bandit, preying on rich locals. Hey, maybe he pulled off the job at Stu and Brenda’s house!”
“Really, Trish! Don’t make vulgar jokes about that. It was awful for them. Poor Brenda. All her jewels gone without a trace. Imagine if they’d been home when it happened, instead of playing golf with you. They might have been . . .” She shuddered, just thinking of it.
“Yeah,” Trish agreed, sobered by the thought. “But still, it’s too bad they didn’t discover the jewelry missing until the next day. There might have been a chance for the police to catch the man.”
Kay was no longer thinking about that. She was thinking about Bob Taylor. The way he’d looked at her body, and the ardent expression in his eyes when he’d asked about Diana. She reached again for her drink and settled back on the beach chair.
Bob Taylor, she thought. Diana. Yes, they’d make a lovely couple.
She didn’t have much time. Kay and Trish would be back from Bolongo by five-thirty, and she was expected to help with dinner. Nola was off on Sundays, so Kay prepared the meals.
She’d seated Lisa at the table on the deck, telling her to sketch the hurricane lamp in its center. Then, claiming allergies she did not possess and the need for a refill on a nonexistent prescription, she’d climbed into the Land Rover and driven here, to the Havensight Mall next to the docks. Not too far from Cliffhanger, and plenty of public phones. There was also a pharmacy that was open on Sunday, in case there were any questions. She found a bank of egg-shaped phone shells at the end of a row of shops. No cruise ships were docked behind the shopping center today, and there were few people about.
Her first call, charged to her Calling Card, was to South Bay Gables, the rest home in Brookhaven, Long Island. She hadn’t phoned there in a week, since that last day at Bolongo, and she was anxious for a report. She spoke to a nurse and to the doctor on duty, and both assured her that everything was as well as could be expected. She thanked them and hung up.
She didn’t want the second call to ever be traced back to her, so the Calling Card was out.
“Operator, I’d like to place a collect, person-to-person call to Mrs. Juana Velasquez in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“Number, please.”
She gave it.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Tell her it’s Blanca.”
She waited, imagining her friend at home in the little house in the unfashionable part of town. She’d been there once, briefly, shortly after Juana and her husband had moved there. If her guess was correct, her friend would be home this afternoon, tending to the baby—her godchild and namesake—and waiting for a Sunday-evening call from Carlos, currently a guest of the state.
Sure enough, Juana answered on the second ring. The baby was gurgling in the background, and she smiled at her friend’s sudden, hearty laugh upon hearing the name of the caller.
“Hola!” Juana cried. “Where you callin’ from?”
“Someplace.”
“Okay, ‘Blanca.’ White girl. I haven’ call’ you dat in years. Ever since de clinic. Hey, you keepin’ clean?”
“One day at a time.”
“Me, too. I don’ even take aspirin, since de baby.”
“How is she?”
“She fine. She big! You come visit soon, see fo’ yo’sel’.”
“I will, soon. Promise.” She cringed at the lie, even as she heard herself uttering it. “How’s Carlos?”
“Ay! Madre de Dios! Dat man! ’Nother fifteen mont’s.”
“It’ll be over soon, Juana. Then he’ll be home.”
“If I let him! Stupid idiot!”
“I hear you. Listen, Juana, I don’t have much time. Did you get my package?”
“Uh-huh. ’Bout a week ago. I done like you say. Carlos’ brodder, Tino, foun’ a good car. I drobe it down dere mysel’. Here’s de address of de parkin’ lot.”
Good, she thought: an out-of-the-way place off North County Road in Palm Beach. “And the stuff in the glove compartment?”
“All dere, jus’ like you say in de letter. Streaks and Tips, black. Mustache an’ beard, an’ dat stuff you put it on wid, spirit gum. All dem plane tickets, too. Hey, what do I do wid de rest of de money? Tino got de car fo’ ’bout twelb hunnered, an’ de odder stuff cost about fifty. You sent ten grand. What’s de rest for?”
“My godchild. And her mother.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“You some crazy white girl. Te amo—Blanca. Dis ting you doin’: you ain’t in no trouble?”
She blinked, surprised by the sudden tears in her eyes. “No, Juana. I’m not in any trouble. Really. Thank you for everything. I have to go now. I’ll be in touch real soon.”
“You watch yo’ ass. Vaya con Dios.”
“I love you, Juana. Vaya con Dios.”
She hung up the phone. She raised her hands to her face, wiping away the tears that were now cascading down her cheeks. Then, checking to be sure she was not being noticed, she ran to the Land Rover and drove back to Cliffhanger as fast as she could. She arrived mere moments before the others.
Kay told her about the meeting on the beach that night after dinner, over coffee in the living room. It was one of those oh-by-the-way things that always seemed to surprise her.
“Oh, by the way,” Kay said, settling back into the white couch facing her, “we ran into Bob Taylor at Bolongo today.”
She had to think a moment to remember who Bob Taylor was.
“Who’s Bob Taylor?” Adam wanted to know.
She watched with an odd mixture of annoyance and amusement as he dropped gracefully, effortlessly, onto the couch next to his wife and grinned across the coffee table. Was there a note of jealousy in his voice? No; she was being fanciful. How was Adam to know that Bob Taylor was a handsome young man? For all he knew, Bob Taylor could be an old man in a wheelchair. . . .
“He’s not a who, he’s a whatl” Trish exclaimed, thereby enlightening the world in general and Adam in particular. “He’s a hunk, a fox, an absolute sculpture. And he’s very interested in finding you, Diana. My dear, take a marginally ol
der woman’s advice and run—do not walk—to the nearest telephone.”
“Well, here’s what I was thinking,” Kay said, leaning forward as her husband dropped an arm across her shoulders. “The reason I mention it. The you-know-what is Thursday.” She glanced up toward Lisa’s room before continuing. “Five of her friends are coming, the Hogan sisters and another girl and two little boys. The grown-up contingent is getting a bit coupley: Adam and me, Kyle and some young woman or other, and Trish and Jerry Flynn.”
“Lucky man,” Trish interjected.
“That leaves you, Diana,” Kay explained. “Odd man out. I don’t know how you feel about it, but I thought perhaps—”
“I see,” she said, nodding.
She did see. Kay was being a clever hostess, balancing the seating at the table in the restaurant following the birthday sail on the Kay. These things were important to Kay Prescott, who seemed intent on making everything, even a child’s birthday party, a picture-perfect example of domestic bliss. Her every action made the statement “See what I do for my family.”
She regarded Kay across the coffee table, thinking—not for the first time—that this woman was probably not unlike her own mother. As she had been. Before.
“Well,” she said. “I’ll think about it. Is he still at Bolongo?”
“Indefinitely,” Trish said, reaching for a bottle of dark amber liquid to top off her glass. “He’s here looking at real estate for development, or something lucrative like that. Although, I must say, he seems terribly young for such an office. Oh, well, my movie friends keep telling me that all the moguls in Hollywood these days are about nineteen years old, so I reckon anything’s possible. Do ask him, dear. It might be great fun. For you, I mean. . . .”
Everyone laughed. She took the opportunity of this light moment to steal a surreptitious glance at Adam. He was leaning comfortably against his wife, his arm draped over her shoulders, playing absently with a lock of her bright-red hair. As she met his gaze across the table, he winked at her and nodded his head.
So. That was that. He wanted her to do this thing, too: invite a complete stranger to be her date at the party. Another beard, like Greg on the Kay two months ago. She looked into his smiling eyes and spoke, unable to resist the dig.
