The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

  “But is he safe?”

  “Safe?”

  “My ex said something about drugs.”

  “Drugs? Nah. That’s not even close to true.”

  “My ex said he started competing badly because of drugs.”

  “Fin’s had a gnarly time; I’ll give you that. But it’s not because of drugs.”

  “What’s it because of?”

  He watched the surf, or maybe Corky, for a while, and didn’t answer right away. Then he pushed up and brushed the sand off his palms. “I think you should ask Fin all this, to be honest. He’ll tell you. If you’re interested in him, you should hear it from him.”

  “I’m not . . . interested in him, Rabbit,” she sputtered.

  “Whatever you say.” He smirked and turned his attention to the waves again. It felt like he was giving her permission. Permission to act like an idiot.

  “Does it seem like I am?”

  “I’m just saying most femmes are.”

  “So by ‘most femmes are,’ you’re saying he dates a lot? My ex said he’s always bringing different girls around, and has a bad reputation.”

  “Your ex seems to have a lot to say about Fin.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess so.”

  Rabbit shook his head, but then, reluctantly, shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t call him a player. For the most part he’s a loner. He goes out with different Betties, but he doesn’t let anyone get to know him. He’s going to turn out to be that mysterious old man who lives on a hill, you know? The one who’ll have birds and iguanas, and he’ll scare little kids away.”

  She laughed. She could relate. Maybe she could introduce her cats to his iguanas.

  “Well, he can’t be that much of a loner—he had that big party the other night.”

  “That was a sponsor party.” Rabbit spit out the phrase, as if he were disgusted with sponsor parties, whatever they were. “Those are totally gnarmin’. Those people think they’re his friends, but I doubt he’d call ’em friends. Most use him. He’s got a lot of cash. Nice digs. Nice surf out his front door. They come for the handouts. And the sponsors come because he makes them tons of dough.”

  Giselle winced. The idea of people just using Fin’s house and things seemed so overwhelmingly sad—like when he said his parents were in Bali, or that they left him with that other family when he was a child.

  “Lia’s nice to him, though,” Rabbit said. “Fin likes her. And I think he trusts me. I mean, he could if he wanted to. He’s a brosef to me—I feel loyal to him. But I think he sees me as too young. Kinda like you do.” He winked at Giselle. “But me and Kino and the crew—we don’t weigh him down with a bunch of wants and needs.”

  Giselle ran her hands through the sand. That sounded about right.

  “And he definitely likes you.” He smiled at her sideways.

  Giselle ignored the fact that her heart leaped like a junior high schooler. “Please. I’m too old for him, Rabbit.”

  His eyebrow arched. “That’s bogus. How old are you?”

  “Guess.”

  Criminy, she was going junior high all the way. But she was playing with fire here. He could say forty, and then how would she feel?

  “You’ve got one of those faces that’s hard to tell.” He let his eyes rivet down her body playfully. “You’ve got young-looking feet, though. Let me see your hands.”

  She brushed the sand off, then held them out, flipped them back and forth.

  “What’s with the wedding ring?”

  “Oh, I—” She felt herself blushing. “I just wear it sometimes. When I’m out with Coco, usually.”

  “All right. Well . . .” He shifted his attention back to her hands, stroking his soul patch, having fun with this now. “Twenty-nine? Thirty?”

  “Older,” she admitted. “But I’ll take thirty.”

  “Well, you’re not too old for Fin. He’s an old soul, anyway.”

  Giselle nodded. Something about that rang true.

  “What about that woman at the party?” Giselle blurted. Despite her schoolgirl attraction, she almost wanted Rabbit to tell her Fin had a girlfriend, or an ex, or something. She didn’t want him to be alone in the world. It just seemed unbearably sad. She held her breath for Rabbit’s answer, though. She wasn’t sure which way she wanted it to go.

  “Which woman?”

  “The one in the yellow bikini—I think he said her name was Veronica.”

  “Oh, Veronica. Well, I’m sure he sleeps with her, but they’re not an item or anything.”

  Giselle’s breath caught. She didn’t expect that comment to knock her in the gut the way it did, but there it was. And there was her answer, too: He may find his connections through casual sex and empty relationships. She had to remind herself that Fin wasn’t of the world she was from—a world of suburban dads who committed themselves to families and drove their five-year-olds in SUVs to soccer camp. Who wore slacks to backyard parties, and stood around with expensive wines, and talked about getting new decks built and the stock market. Although, of course, that world was not perfect, as Giselle had once dreamed it would be. It was filled with insidiousness, like doctor dads who screwed around with their nurses and pharma reps. The idyllic life she’d always wanted for her daughter was coming with plenty of holes in it—plenty of ugliness and falseness. But it was the only life she’d ever trained herself to want.

  And Fin’s was a world she simply couldn’t comprehend. One in which she didn’t know the rules. His world seemed filled with young, available, stunningly beautiful women, there for the taking, standing around on ocean-view patios with champagne glasses, but it seemed to have no boundaries or emotions. He probably slept around, which was a lifestyle she would never understand or be able to participate in. She would never be able to separate sex from romantic feelings like some people could do—people, probably, like Veronica. Giselle had only ever slept with two men: her husband, and one man before him she’d thought she was in love with. She couldn’t imagine having sex with a man and not getting tangled in emotion. She’d always be the worst kind of clingy.

  “Hey, want breakfast?” Rabbit slapped her knee with his knuckles.

  “Oh—no, I don’t think so. I was going to . . . um, just take care of some things in the apartment.” What she really meant was “Google Fin” and “call Lia,” but she didn’t want to sound like a bigger goofball than she already did. “And maybe get some sun.”

  “In that?” Rabbit smirked at her long-sleeved shirt and pants.

  “I have a bathing suit.”

  “Thought you were going to stay covered up the whole time here.” Rabbit bit back a smile. “Don’t forget sunblock.” He unraveled his legs and scanned the horizon for his friends.

  She followed him to a standing position and gathered her towel and camera.

  “Hey, Giselle?” Rabbit called. He threw his beach towel over his shoulder and used one edge to wipe the salt water out of his hairline. “He’s a good guy. And he’s safe to hang out with. He just . . . Well, don’t expect to get too close.”

  She started to protest that she wasn’t interested in getting “close,” but somehow she lost the momentum, and wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted anyway.

  She simply nodded. “Thanks, Rabbit.”

  • • •

  Once home, Giselle scrambled for her laptop with an energy she pretended was for the new brochure, but—without opening a single brochure photo file—she managed to find herself a half hour into perusing a Fin Hensen wiki.

  Next to a photo of him in the surf was a caption that he’d been pro since he was seventeen, sponsored by two major surf-wear companies right after high school. It said his father was a famous surfer, once world champ, and had also ridden for Mahina. There was a separate link to him.

  Giselle opened it, hoping for a photo of Fin’s father, but there was
only a grainy thing from the ’70s, shot from far away.

  Fin’s own wiki listed all the years he’d been on the World Tour—first qualifying when he was nineteen, then surfing it every year since, usually ranking in the top 5 percent. His “home base” was listed as Sandy Cove, but it said he was there for only about nineteen weeks a year. His earnings from contests and sponsorships were listed at $1.2 million. But then, according to the write-up, on a break during last year’s tour, he’d been surfing with close friend Jennifer Andre when she was involved in a surfing accident and died. A link to Jennifer Andre’s page showed a beautiful young Hawaiian woman in a bikini, leaning against a hibiscus-strewn surfboard.

  In the three Men’s World Tour events following her death—one in Portugal, one on the southwest coast of France, and one in Hawaii—Fin only placed twentieth or twenty-first out of twenty-five, causing the surfing community to “assume he’d given up,” the wiki speculated. It also said Mahina would probably not renew his next contract, despite their history together with him and his father, but no source was given. The article also linked to several photos of Fin supposedly on “guilt benders” and to tabloid-type articles with photos of him at parties with various women.

  Giselle clicked through each of the tabloid stories, and zoomed in on each of the photos, but she was beginning to understand why Fin didn’t like his picture taken—all the captions seemed as if they were trying to show him in as terrible a light as possible: “Fin Hensen Now Seeing Catalina Caesar?” (a photo of him sitting next to a pretty young woman on a couch); “Fin Hensen Stoned in Teahupoo?” (a photo of him mid-blink); “Why Didn’t Fin Hensen Show Up on Time at the Hurley Pro?” (a photo of him leaving what appeared to be his own hotel room).

  Giselle clicked through articles for about twenty minutes, but what caught her eye for the rest of the morning were the professional photos of him in the surf. Although the tabloid reports now took up his whole first page on Google, the second page was filled with the material he probably wanted next to his name: dozens of articles and photos dating from the last nine years, of Fin on his board, glistening in the water, stooped low to keep his balance, coming through waves. . . . There was an article about a foundation he was part of to save the oceans, and another of an environmental study he was helping with. . . . There was a cover story in Surfer magazine from two Julys ago, with a photo spread of him in artful and athletic positions. . . . The photos took her breath away. He was strong and sleek and powerful, staring off camera with that grin she was coming to love. Only the photos since August had that sad, lost expression.

  Giselle picked up her cell and dialed again.

  “Lia,” she said, exasperated, into her sister’s voice mail. “Please call me.” She stared at a photo of Fin surfing through a riot of whitewater. “It’s about Fin,” she added at the last second, then hung up. There. That ought to get Lia to call back. She quickly closed the Web pages down before she began drooling all over the keyboard, then logged on to her e-mail. Much to her surprise, there was an e-mail from Lia from earlier that morning.

  “Hope everything’s good with the apartment. I meant to tell you that you can park in space 119 in the underground garage. And that the ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ faucets are backward in the tub. You probably figured that out. And, if you’re reading this on your laptop, you probably found the router in the corner of my bedroom. Lost my phone in Bryant Park. I’ll probably come home early, July 5. E-mail if you need anything. Kisses to Coco. XOXO”

  Giselle hit reply and stared at her blinking cursor, wondering how much to say, how much to ask, how much to admit about Fin. But she really wanted to have those conversations with Lia in person. And it looked like now she would, on July 5.

  “Things are great,” she finally wrote back. “We can’t wait to see you.”

  She hit send, then rummaged through the dresser for her bathing suit, bumping her fingertips against Lia’s red bikini. She almost laughed before shoving it aside to find her conservative one-piece.

  She slipped on a cover-up, then tossed a towel, sunblock, and bottled water into her tote bag and headed to the beach.

  She’d be fine. Even without Lia’s input. This was her own new life now, and she could forge ahead.

  And she might have some ideas about tonight with Fin. She may not ever fit in with his world—with his sexy Veronicas and one-night stands—but she could certainly play for a bit. It was like being afraid of the ocean, but knowing how to dip your toe in—to enjoy the cold shock of the sea, know how vast it was, know it could swallow you whole—but enjoy your shivers from shore.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  Giselle perched on the edge of a dining chair before Fin arrived so she wouldn’t wrinkle her new dress, astounded that she didn’t have anything to do. Without Coco, without Roy, without her home in Indiana, without her chores or her basil on the windowsill, she didn’t have anything to rush around for. She smoothed her skirt and took twenty cleansing breaths.

  A knock sounded at the door, and she lunged to yank it open.

  Fin lounged against the doorframe, meeting her gaze with an embarrassed grin.

  Yesterday he’d been all sharp angles in his business suit, but this afternoon he exuded a masculine elegance: double-breasted tuxedo, bow tie nestled beneath his Adam’s apple, hair slicked back. The six-o’clock light cast him in shades of gold. He had a small white-strip bandage across the bridge of his nose and a dark purple line that curved away from his eye. But Giselle still thought he looked gorgeous.

  As he took in her full appearance, though, he pushed up from the doorway. His smile faded.

  “Too much?” She touched her new “strawberry blond” hair.

  But he wasn’t paying attention to her hair. His gaze was caught at her breasts, which showcased her other new purchase today: a halter-style red dress. The salesgirl on Sandy Cove’s Main Street—a friend of Lia’s named Vivi who worked in a vintage clothing shop—had helped her with some “tape” to keep the strips of chiffon in place, but they were creating a sharp V down her front that showcased her pillowy new cleavage, courtesy of her new Bali push-up bra.

  “Giselle,” he breathed out.

  “It’s too much, isn’t it?” She let go of the door handle and began to twist, but his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

  She was afraid to meet his eyes. She knew she’d gone too far. After Rabbit’s discussion this morning, she thought maybe she’d try to be the sultry kind of woman Fin longed for, the kind like Veronica, with the remarkable breasts and beautiful bare shoulders. And then, seeing him in all the Internet photos, she came up with some sort of crazy bravado, probably fueled by groupie-ism.

  But now—seeing him in real life, looking like a cover model under this deep, golden sun—all of her insecurities were back. She’d gone too far with this dress and this hair color. They weren’t her. She probably looked like a hooker.

  She pulled away, and he used the momentum to step inside. The door clicked behind him.

  “You look beautiful,” he said huskily. But he sounded like he was trying to convince someone.

  Pressing back tears of bad judgment, she pretended to fuss for something inside her purse. She heard him take a deep breath. He was probably trying to think of how he was going to break it to her—Honey, you absolutely can’t go to my wine-tasting event looking like that. I’ll get arrested for pimping.

  Finally, she got up the nerve to face him.

  He ran his hand over his face. “I did say not to dress too sexy.”

  “I’m thinking I look more ridiculous than sexy.”

  “You look sexy,” he said quietly.

  “And you don’t want sexy?”

  He let out a sound that seemed meant to be a laugh. “Well, that would make me a fool.” His eyes slipped again. “But these people . . .”

  “They don’t like that,” she filled in for h
im.

  “Something like that.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “Idiots.”

  She laughed. “But you want to impress them?”

  “I need to impress them.” He paused, still seeming to struggle with where to rest his gaze. Eventually, he frowned at her head. “New hair?”

  Her hand flew to the red curls that flew around her shoulders—not exactly Ronald McDonald, but definitely more than she’d bargained for. Another wave of shame swept over her. This was the stupidest idea she’d ever had.

  “I just wanted . . .”

  He waited, frowning, for her to finish the sentence, but she didn’t know how. What had she wanted? To impress him? To look younger? To be someone else for an evening?

  “You wanted what?” he prompted.

  “To be someone different.” She spun away this time, because admitting that definitely made her want to cry. She’d worked so hard, for so many years, to cultivate the image she thought was expected of her: good daughter, good wife, good mother. Proper. Reserved. Quiet. Put your own needs aside and serve others.

  But now she was wanting her own things—passion, excitement, adventure, this man—and she didn’t know how to get them by being herself. She began shuffling through her purse again, but her mind was on Lia’s closet, wondering what she could change into.

  “Why do you want to be someone different, Giselle?”

  The gentleness she heard in his voice shook her, but she couldn’t answer or she’d really start crying.

  Criminy. He’d been here all of two minutes and was already being subjected to more of the drama he’d put up with all day yesterday. He was probably so over her.

  She shook her head and begged her emotions to quiet.

  “Well, mission accomplished. You don’t look much like the Giselle I met the other day.”

  When she mustered the bravado to turn and face him, she saw his mouth quirk up on one side. He rubbed the back of his neck. “But that Giselle—the one from the other day—she’s the one I need to bring to this party.”