by C. S. Lakin
Cynthia slid into the booth beside her. “Here, thought you might want this.”
Della looked up as Cynthia handed her a cup of hot tea. “Seasick?”
“No, just sick of life. Thanks.”
“Do you want company? If you’d rather be alone . . .”
“No, that’s okay.” She sipped the tea and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “So, where’d you and Davis meet?”
“At a party. Actually, I didn’t like him much at first—he was a real flirt. But, it turns out our fathers did business together. Banking, investing—it’s a pretty small circle in Marin. We even went to the same high school, although Davis was years ahead of me. We kept running into each other.” She smiled, lost in some memory. “He finally he convinced me his affections were serious.”
Della’s attention wandered. Her head throbbed and her eyelids grew heavy. She lit another cigarette. “So, what do you do—work and all that?” Della wished Cynthia would stop talking about Davis.
“Well, I chair three organizations. One for the regional MS chapter, two are educational awareness programs for teens—pregnancy, drugs. I help with fund-raising, pledges, stuff like that. It’s hard work, but rewarding. I get restless sitting around the house.”
Poor baby. Even dressed in casual clothes, Cynthia oozed money, probably lived off a trust fund. A rush of bitterness coursed through Della. She focused her attention on Davis and Jonathan across the room as Cynthia rambled on about her teen center.
“Well, you made out, Davis.” Jon nodded at Cynthia. “Nothing like the fame-hungry actresses I have to deal with all the time.”
Jon could tell Davis had his act together. The classy clothes, his own business. Everything about Davis spelled success. Yet, here he was, the only one who actually went to Hollywood out of their entire drama group and made a career. So why was he envious of Davis, who spent his days behind a desk pushing pencils?
All those bitter feelings from college rushed back at him—the struggling to get “there,” wherever “there” was. Always feeling like he had to prove so much. Prove to his pals that he was someone to admire, to envy. Prove to his parents that he could make a better life than theirs. That he wasn’t destined to make lox platters till the day he died. Davis always had it so easy. He always had money behind him, the lazy bastard. Always got people to do what he wanted by flashing that gleaming set of perfectly straight teeth.
Jon forced a smile as he listened to Davis rave about Cynthia. How she needed protection, that she’d had a sheltered childhood and was an innocent in the real, harsh world. How she was sensitive and self-sacrificing and some such crap and how lucky he was to have found her.
“Yeah, that’s how I felt about my first wife. Then it turned out the innocent stuff was a ploy. Not only did she have a lover on the side, but she was siphoning off my money without my knowing it. When we got divorced, thousands just disappeared into thin air. Poof! So, don’t sit too easy.”
Davis only laughed. “So, what’s with Della? Why the hostility?”
Jon waved him off.
“Well, I think you should go easy on her. She’s having a hard time.”
“Right. And did you catch the scars on her wrists?”
“No. I didn’t.” Davis turned from Jon to watch Cynthia.
Wait until you’ve been through three marriages. You’ll be plenty sour by then.
An hour and a half after departure, the ship’s horn sounded. The ferry eased into the docking area on San Juan Island. Small boats moored at the marina bobbed and tipped in the blustering wind. A few people huddled in rain slickers at the wooden landing, awaiting passage back to Annacortes. The town, with its old-fashioned storefronts and colorful cottages, looked deserted.
Davis and Jon joined the two women.
“God, we must be crazy to be up here this time of year,” Davis said.
“Lila’s the crazy one. She’s the one who picked this weekend,” Della said.
“Maybe she finds this kind of weather entertaining,” Jon added.
Della grunted. “Entertaining isn’t the word I’d choose. And what kind of boat is going to cart us over to her island in this storm?”
Cynthia frowned. “Let’s just hope it’s not a sailboat.”
Davis put his arm around her and squeezed her. “Hon, don’t worry. I’m sure Lila has it all figured out. She’ll take good care of us.”
Chapter 11
“Oh, Dick,” Millie said, “isn’t this a beautiful sight?”
“The calm before the storm.” He stepped off the ferry ramp and looked around the harbor. He eyes searched the narrow streets into the wooded community of Friday Harbor.
The word “quaint” came to Millie’s mind. She wished she could have brought the girls; she missed them terribly. They would have been a lot more fun than Grumpy.
“There’s the restaurant—right above the marina.” Dick began walking at a brisk pace, leaving Millie trailing behind. The wind whipped at her coat. She clutched her wool scarf, tripping over puddles as she crossed the street, rolling her suitcase behind her.
“Hey, wait up.”
Dick ignored her. She figured he was still mad at her for making them miss the noon ferry. Well, he wanted her to drive and she refused to speed in this weather. With her luck, he told her, they’ll miss the charter at Friday Harbor and blow the whole weekend.
Dick seemed eager to see his old pals, but Millie’s gut filled with trepidation. She had never been very close to the others in Thespians. She performed and rehearsed with them all, but underneath the camaraderie she knew they made fun of her awkwardness. Lila was the only real friend she’d had, and that was because Lila’d been an outcast too. Millie sighed.
By the time she arrived at the parking lot, winded and sweaty, Dick emerged from the restaurant, followed by a group of familiar people. She spotted Davis right away; he looked little different than she remembered, accompanied by a blonde. Jon’s hair was shorter and more stylish, but there was no mistaking his confident stride. The dark-haired woman standing behind him was a mystery. In fact, Millie didn’t recognize Della until she heard her speak.
“Hi, Millie. Been a long time.”
Millie stiffened at her voice, waiting for condescension, but only fatigue laced her tone. She noticed Della’s shaking hands. Then she took a better look. Fifteen years had taken their toll on Della—all her beauty and spirit stripped away. Millie could hardly tear her eyes from the sight of Della’s beaten, hopeless expression. Millie tightened her coat around her and said hello to the Thespians class of ’90, aware of their staring at her extra sixty pounds.
An old mariner walked up to the group in the parking lot, dressed in a rain parka and rubber boots, with a shaggy dog at his heels. “Are you the folks heading out to Miss Carmichael’s?”
Davis looked at the meager handful of classmates. “You our ride? How many are you supposed to be picking up?”
The captain counted heads. “You’re looking at it minus one. Who we missing?”
Jon spoke up. “My date had to bow out last minute.”
Davis looked puzzled. “Small group. Maybe there’re more coming later.”
“Nope. You’re it.” The captain checked the sky. “We should get going.”
“Some big reunion,” Jon said.
Dick beamed. “La crème de la crème. Lila just wanted us, I guess. So, what are we waiting for?”
The captain scrunched up his face. He led them over to a wooden dock. Few boats rocked at their moorings in the large harbor. “This here’s your ride,” he said, pointing to the small boat pulling at the slip. “Gonna be a little choppy going around the pass. Windy, too.” Mac’s dog greeted everyone with a lick. “First mate, Sherpa. My name’s Mac.” He whistled and the dog jumped on board. “Named him for that famous explorer.” He chuckled and started untying the line.
Cynthia boarded first, taking the ferryman’s outstretched hand. Davis climbed in after her, uncomfortable with the small
craft. Sailing on San Francisco Bay in his ketch with a warm breeze blowing was one thing. Weathering these swells with a storm looming was another. Especially when the water temperature rarely topped fifty degrees. If they had to bail out, they’d surely die from hypothermia before they could make it to land. Davis cringed. If there was anything he hated, it was cold, icy water. And he was not a good swimmer. Sure, he’d been an all-around athlete in high school—basketball, football, soccer. But never swimming. He peered over the bow of the boat. Cynthia huddled beside him.
Her voice was hesitant. “Hon, why are we doing this?”
Davis wrapped his arms around her and cradled her. “Trust me, darling—this is going to be a great weekend. And I’ll look after you, you know that. Anytime you feel uneasy or left out, just tell me, okay?” Cynthia nodded. “That’s my girl,” he said, stroking her hair.
After they boarded, the boat pulled away from the harbor. Sherpa stationed himself at his master’s feet. They cruised by beautiful wood and glass homes sequestered in woods that grew to the edge of the water. Boats tied to private docks swayed in the swells. The shore seemed within touching distance. Davis pictured his sailboat rigged up, catching the wind on a warm summer day. Barbecuing on the beach while watching for whales.
“Look at these fancy houses. I bet they cost a fortune,” Dick said. “Maybe I’ll get a place up here someday.”
“Who lives out here? Are these all retired people?” Millie asked, wiggling on the hard, vinyl bench.
The boat rocked and lurched with the swells. Davis gripped the side rail. He felt a little relief, noting the stack of life jackets stuffed under the bench. The image of floating bodies from the “Titanic” movie fueled his imagination.
Mac steered the boat away from the island and headed toward a narrow passage. “Used to be. Now a lot of city folks are moving in with their fax machines and computers and home generators.” Another island loomed on their right. Whitecaps crested the waves. The wind blew salt spray into their faces as the boat continued at a slow, steady speed. The vessel lurched and sank into troughs as the swells grew higher. Mac paid close attention to his course. “Normally this channel is full of traffic. But not this time of year. And not in this weather.”
He looked over at Della, whose face was pale. “You all right, miss? If you need to upchuck, it’s better over the edge than in the bucket.” He pointed to the railing and just the suggestion was enough. Della gripped the railing and leaned her head over as the boat plowed forward into the wind.
“Just a little bit more, and we’ll make the turn. It’ll quiet down noticeably.” Mac kept his eyes on the water. “People come up here to sail, kayak, thinkin’ it’s so calm and sheltered between the islands. But they don’t understand how treacherous it is. These currents run up around five knots and they’re forced through these narrow passages like a funnel. You gotta know what you’re getting into up here. Lotsa folks been swept away. I seen it.”
Dick stumbled over to the captain. He couldn’t hear anything Mac said with the wind battering the boat.
“Used to be a lot of piratin’ in the old days. Now all the rich people’ve bought up these islands. They’ve got a private airstrip over there—that’s where Miss Carmichael flies in and out. But they’re isolated out here. Have to bring in water. The power goes out all the time. Have to boat to Crane Island to get supplies. No doctors or hospitals. Most of these folks are used to the city life. They get out here and they fall apart.”
“How long has Lila had her place? You see her a lot?” Dick asked. He desperately wanted to know what she was really like. He never bothered to get to know her in college—but, who knew she’d make it big?
Mac shook his head. “Maybe a few years. Was a huge operation, shipping all that fancy stuff in. But, from what I gather, she’s not here much.”
Dick yelled over the whistling wind. “We went to college with her. We gave her her first chance to act.”
“Ain’t that something,” Mac said.
As they approached the dock, the group gathered at the rails and stared at the sandy stretch of beach before them. The island was undeveloped and wooded, sloping gently to the water, which raced in a turbulent clip along the beach. A tall metal flagpole stood erect out of the sand, the only sign of civilization. Dick saw no boats, phone lines, or roads marring the primitive landscape.
“Is this it?” Dick said. “Where’s the house? Or are we camping out?” He laughed, but the others looked despondent.
Mac threw the line over the post and helped everyone out of the boat. “Now, just head through that clearing there. You can’t miss it. I’ll be back to round you up Sunday afternoon, weather permitting.”
Millie frowned. “What do you mean, ‘weather permitting’?”
“Just like I said. Nasty storm’s coming in. But if I can get here, I will. You’ll be plenty comfortable in that little cabin of Lila’s.” He unloaded all the gear and set it on the dock, shaking his head.
As the boat headed back out into open water, Dick broke the silence. “Well, what are we waiting for, gang? Let’s check out this little ‘cabin’ of Lila’s.” He hoisted his suitcase and trudged through the wet sand. The others fell in behind him. The sun was starting to set and Dick didn’t want to be wandering in the dark. Who knew what kind of wild animals prowled these woods?
As they came out of the dense brush, a palatial stone castle rose up three stories before them, lushly landscaped and accented with multi-colored spotlights. A small wooden sign stuck out of the sand that simply announced, “Lila’s Joint.” In the gloom of the fading light, Lila’s retreat shone like the castle at Disneyland. She had even put in a small moat and drawbridge at the entrance.
“Get a load of this,” Dick said, his jaw dropping in amazement.
Before any of them could speak, the drawbridge lowered, exposing a pair of wooden doors, easily fifteen feet high.
Jonathan laughed. “What a great gimmick.”
Della stood with Davis and Cynthia, all watching with curiosity. As the drawbridge touched ground, loudspeakers blasted a fanfare of horns.
“This is too much,” Davis said. “Isn’t this great, hon?”
Cynthia nodded but Dick could tell she would rather be home. A pang of jealousy struck him, looking at Cynthia’s beautiful face and slender figure. Davis always got the girls. Dick humphed and turned back to the castle. He reached into his carryall and pulled out a small camera. “Okay, guys. Everyone! Stand in front of the moat. Now, don’t fall in. Lila’s probably got real crocodiles in there. Come on, come on.” Slowly, the group gathered and Dick snapped away.
“What about you?” Millie asked.
“I’ll take it.”
A slender man, dressed in colorful court jester’s attire, strolled across the drawbridge. He pulled the camera out of Dick’s hand and motioned for Dick to get into the shot. Who was this clown?
“Now then,” the man said, looking each one in the eye, “welcome to Devil’s Island. Peter Avon, here to entertain and amuse you until her majesty arrives.” He snapped some photos and handed the camera back to Dick.
“Let’s see if I can guess: Dick Ferrol, no doubt.”
Dick, stunned, extended his hand. “How’d you know my name?”
“Oh, Lila’s told me about all of you. Here—that must be Millie,” he said, pointing and working his way down the line, examining each one. “And Della, Davis, Cynthia, and finally Jonathan.” He drew close to Jonathan’s face. “So especially glad to meet you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, then looked puzzled. “One missing?”
Jonathan pulled away. “Melodie couldn’t make it.”
Peter feigned disappointed. “So sad. I was looking forward to meeting an aspiring starlet.” He clapped his hands. “Well, entrez-vous! As Lila says, ‘Mi castle es su castle.’ ”
Peter escorted them across the bridge and into a reception area paved with rough-hewn stone and featuring a massive fountain in the center. A grotesque metal ga
rgoyle spewed water from its mouth, and imposing wings spanned halfway across the room.
“This is right out of King Arthur,” Dick said. Amazing what you could do with so much wealth.
“Yeah,” Davis said, “except King Arthur didn’t have stereo speakers.”
“And electricity,” Millie added.
Peter led them through the archaic entry to a set of double French doors. He gestured them inside. “Please, help yourself to food and drink. Lila left some DVDs to keep you entertained. And just set your bags down anywhere. We’ll direct you to the bedrooms later.”
Peter disappeared through a crevice in one of the castle walls. Della pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
“Della, come on,” Cynthia motioned with her hand. Dick followed them into the next room.
“Now, this is more like it,” Davis said, entering the living room. Plush white carpet, white, glossy walls. A giant plasma screen, ultra-modern glass coffee and buffet tables loaded with food and assorted bottles of liquor. Fine crystal and china, silver service—everything meant to impress.
And Dick was very impressed. He settled down comfortably in an overstuffed recliner and reached for the remote control.
“Let’s see what Lila’s got on the tube.”
Della went to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. Davis fixed Cynthia and himself martinis and relaxed on the couch. Jonathan made himself a gin and tonic and positioned his suitcase at his side.
The DVD started to play. Lila lay on her back, feet up, on a tenement stoop, dressed as a bag lady, with teeth blackened out. Her excess weight bulged at the seams as she did contortions with her body. Another “homeless woman” entered the shot, babbling about how hungry she was. Lila told her to can it; she was doing her morning “aerobics.”
Dick laughed. “I saw this sketch. It’s a riot.”
“Shhh,” Davis said, settling into a leather recliner and leaning toward the TV. Cynthia got up and wandered around the room, looking at the odd assortment of modernistic paintings and sculptures.
