The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

Fin was embarrassed that his parents lived such an impoverished life. It was what they wanted, though. Fin kept trying to send money, but his dad would send it back. Usually with angry notes. His dad came close, several times, to accusing him of selling out, of losing sight of what surfing was all about. His dad said he didn’t need much in Bali—just good surf, his good woman, and a bowl of rice three times a day. Fin himself had always felt hungry as a child, and often unsafe, and couldn’t understand how his parents could have chosen that as their level of “enough.” They’d slept under trees on hard beach sands in Mexico or South Africa, Fin shivering against the siren howls of the wolves or jackals. Sometimes they’d sleep in the van, the gas fumes clogging their throats as one of the Zen surfers sat guard, freezing, in the driver’s seat. They learned to hide their food in hanging nets, against animals and vagrant thieves. Because Fin had lived a childhood that always felt uncertain, he now relished having money. He kept most of it in the bank—he didn’t have many needs—but having it made him feel safe. He knew he would never have to wonder where his next meal was coming from.

  Despite that brief side trip during tonight’s dinner, he had enjoyed the rest of the night. He got a kick out of Fox and Tamara; he loved talking surf with Mr. Makua; and he loved watching Giselle. Watching her laugh. Watching her close her eyes against the deliciousness of cheesecake. Watching the passion spark in her eyes when she talked about art. Seeing that smoldering sexuality bubbling closer and closer to the surface. . . . He was lucky he was heading out to South Africa in two days, because whatever this obsession with her was, it was starting to feel dangerous.

  At the Roman-ruins exit, the five of them shook hands, and the women exchanged hugs. As they waited for Mr. Makua’s driver, Mr. Makua tugged on Fin’s elbow and held him back from the others.

  “Your father is proud,” he said, low.

  “What?” Fin couldn’t imagine what Mr. M was talking about. He hadn’t talked to Fin’s dad in years.

  “His heart swells with pride.”

  Fin smirked. Maybe right between sending his money back and ignoring his phone calls. “How do you know that, Mr. Makua?”

  “Because my heart swells with pride.”

  A strange lump formed in the center of Fin’s throat. He tried to swallow around it.

  “You are a man of respect,” Mr. M said quietly. “I knew you respected the ocean, and I knew you respected your father and mother, but tonight I saw you respect life, and Jennifer’s life, and your lady. This will take you a long way, Mr. Hensen.”

  “But Giselle—she’s not—”

  “You have respect for her.” Mr. M waved off Fin’s response. “That is what matters. I don’t care about what the tabloids say, Mr. Hensen. I care about what I see. Respect for others, respect for Mother Nature, respect for self.” He ticked each one off with a finger. “This is all your father ever wanted for you.”

  The car pulled up, and Mr. M leaned forward on his cane as the bodyguards came close, helping him and Charlene into the car.

  Fin wanted to continue the conversation, but all he could do was lift his palm in an inadequate good-bye.

  As soon as the car pulled away, Tamara’s smile left her face. She hooked Giselle’s arm in hers and headed down Laguna Canyon Road toward Javier’s, several steps in front of Fin.

  He cleared his throat and pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, against a strange pressure of tears that dammed there, and glanced at Tamara’s deliberate tugging of Giselle.

  This was going to be a hell of a night.

  • • •

  Javier’s was crowded, as usual.

  Fin ushered Giselle and Tamara off the beach sidewalk, through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd within the whitewashed adobe walls. They made their way to a bar table and ordered a round of margaritas under the open beams of the night-lit patio. But Fin, at the last minute, called the waitress back and changed his order to a club soda.

  The wooden casement windows on the far end of the bar opened toward the night ocean, with only the Pacific Coast Highway and some sand between. The misty air, mingled with the evening fog, smelled like salt and left a familiar film on Fin’s arms. He rolled his dress sleeves past his elbows and continued to think about what Mr. M had said. Respect? Was that what Mr. M had been looking for all this time in his Mahina spokesman? Was that really all Fin’s father had wanted? And was that what was so different about Giselle—was he stumbling over himself with respect for her? Was that why she felt so special?

  “The melon margaritas here are wonderful,” Tamara told Giselle, pushing hers across the table for Giselle to try.

  Tamara was talking again, trying to maintain a cheerful note, but obviously still seething. He wondered how often Fox pulled this kind of thing. Of course, he didn’t ask: He didn’t want to get her any more riled up than she already was.

  The music grew louder as the night grew longer. The Eagles’ “Tequila Sunrise” came over the speakers. Soon Tamara was slipping into alcohol-induced revelations, leaning heavily toward Fin’s shoulder.

  “So I didn’t embarrass you earlier, did I, with the first-kiss story?”

  He took a sip of his club soda and looked at her sideways. “No,” he lied.

  “I just love a good love story.” The tequila was causing her Ls to become labored. “And you two are clearly in love,” Tamara went on, leaning now toward Giselle.

  Fin glanced across the table at Giselle, who was avoiding his eyes.

  “I wonder if Fox is on his way.” Fin dug his phone from his pants pocket to check his messages. Damn—he’d forgotten that he’d turned it off during the performance. Had he already missed Fox’s call? “If he doesn’t come soon, maybe we can take a walk along the beach,” he tried, as he came upon three messages in a row from a number he didn’t recognize.

  Shit, it was Fox. Fin could barely hear Fox’s message above “The Piña Colada Song” on his end. But he could make out the whirling of the presses on Fox’s side. “I’m waiting for Chartreuse to bring its new ad by, and as soon as this asshole gets here with it, I’ll head back over there. Should be no more than two hours.”

  Crap. He couldn’t keep Tamara sober here for that long.

  The table trembled as Tamara leaped off her barstool, her own phone pressed to her ear. She must have gotten the same message.

  “Tamara!” Fin lunged across the table to try to stop her, but she was quick. She spun past a burly man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt at the bar table behind them and headed for the front door. He swore under his breath and turned toward Giselle. “Wait here.”

  He elbowed his way through palm- and hibiscus-decorated sundresses and dress shirts and tried to catch Tamara at the door, but she moved too fast. He got caught up behind a party for six and lost her.

  “Tamara!” He spun out to the sidewalk. The bars were still teeming with people. Live music and suntanned bodies spilled out onto the sidewalks, carrying the heavy scent of suntan lotion and perfume. Fin turned sideways through the next crowd.

  “Tamara!” He spotted her and lunged forward, catching her wrist. “What are you doing?”

  As she whirled to face him, he was stunned to come face-to-face with the most pitiful expression he’d ever seen—mascara streaming down her cheeks, mouth long and sad, and wisps of dark hair sticking to her neck. He felt so damned sorry for her.

  “He keeps doing this,” she wailed. “He keeps leaving me.”

  “Tamara, it’s a work emergency. What’s he supposed to do?”

  “I think he’s seeing someone.”

  Fin stepped back, startled by the preposterousness.

  “I could hear presses in the background,” he said. Her accusation seemed so absurd he didn’t think he needed to say more than that, but she shook her head.

  People jostled them, and the scent of coconut oil swam heavily in the air. She sw
ayed to the right.

  “Let’s go back to the restaurant,” he said. “Giselle is still there.”

  He thought that would appeal to Tamara’s protectiveness, but Tamara looked farther down in the direction of the beach. He tried again: “We’ll pay for our drinks. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll take you home, or . . .” He left that open-ended. He wasn’t really sure what their other options were.

  “I liked your idea about the walk on the beach.”

  “Okay.” He began nudging her back toward Javier’s. “But let’s get Giselle first.”

  “Or your house?” she asked, in full vulnerability mode now. She leaned into him and swiped at the mascara under her eyes. “Can we go to your house? You and me and Giselle? I like her, Fin.”

  “Sure. We’ll go wherever you want. And I like her, too.” God, he hated to see women cry. He never knew what to say, or what to do.

  He directed Tamara through the sidewalk crowds, past beer bottles clinking inside the restaurant patios, past bursts of laughter punctuating the swells of live bands. When they made it back to Javier’s, Giselle was standing in front, holding her purse primly.

  “I paid the bill,” she said.

  Fin winced. “Let me pay you back.”

  “No, it’s okay—” She caught sight of Tamara’s tear-streaked face and gasped. “What happened?”

  “Fox is cheating on me.” Tamara threw her arms around Giselle.

  Giselle looked wide-eyed at Fin over Tamara’s shoulder, but he shook his head.

  “Tamara wants to go somewhere,” he announced. “I think we all need some fresh air and fewer crowds.”

  A few guys suddenly recognized Fin on the sidewalk and came over for autographs. He scrawled his name and handed hats and other items back, desperately trying to keep track of Tamara, who was stumbling down the sidewalk toward the car, leaning into Giselle. He was pretty sure there’d be an article in the paper tomorrow about what a jerk he was, not signing enough autographs, not signing that guy’s skimboard, not even focusing on his fans. He took a deep breath and tried to keep Tamara in his line of vision.

  Once he escaped, and made sure Giselle and Tamara were both in the car, he leaned against the hood and left messages at the pressroom to let Fox know where they were.

  Damn, things weren’t going the way he’d hoped.

  • • •

  Tamara was undone by the time they got to Fin’s place. Her dress was crumpled around her hips, and mascara formed jags down her face.

  “I was a debutante,” she whined from the backseat. “My father was the CEO of Pique. How could Fox do this to me?”

  “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding,” said Giselle, double-checking her assumption against Fin’s profile. He nodded.

  When they arrived at Fin’s house, he ushered them down his front walk, past the sounds of the dark ocean that roared up between the narrow homes, and into his living room, where he left the two of them in the center while he flipped on the lights.

  Giselle laid her purse on the low, midcentury-modern couch and wondered whether she should keep up the ruse for Tamara that she and Fin were engaged. Should she walk into the kitchen and pretend she knew where the water glasses were?

  One glance at Tamara, though, swaying from her standing position, and she had her answer. There would be no need. She led Tamara toward the couch. “Have a seat, sweetie,” she said, easing her into the thin, rectangular cushions.

  Fin watched both of them warily.

  “Let’s get her some water,” Giselle said over her shoulder, and Fin nodded, escaping into the kitchen.

  Giselle settled Tamara against the back of the couch and then joined Fin. He helped her get down a coffee mug and turned on the tap water for her. The mug had a lewd picture on the side.

  “You don’t have any glasses?” she said.

  He smiled. “Afraid my china for twelve is in storage, Miss Strawberry Queen.”

  Giselle walked the mug to Tamara, but Tamara had gotten up and found some scotch Fin had on top of a wet bar by the window. She held up a shot glass that had the name of some Vegas showroom scrawled across the side.

  “Tamara,” Giselle said in her den-mother voice. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Oh, Giselle, please. If Fin were cheating on you, you’d be doing the same thing.”

  Giselle glanced at Fin, who simply raised his eyebrow at that.

  “I want to sit on the beach,” Tamara announced.

  She pushed past Giselle to the center sliding door. Fin had three sets of sliders, spanning the front of the house. Tamara stumbled over an expensive-looking telescope in the center of the room, chose the slider on the farthest side, and tugged at the lock.

  “Tamara, why don’t you relax.” Fin moved her hand away. “The tide’s all the way in. Sit down. Let me get some lights on out there.”

  Tamara backed off, and Fin herded her toward the couch. He threw Giselle a pointed stare that seemed to beg for help.

  Giselle took Tamara’s hands and guided her toward the couch, sitting with her, this time, on the edge.

  “I just love him,” Tamara whispered to Giselle, her mouth forming a grimace as the tears began to flow.

  “I know you do.”

  “I just want him to stay with me.” Tamara buried her forehead into Giselle’s shoulder.

  Giselle patted her head. “He will, Tamara. He loves you. He’s just working.” She fluffed two couch pillows, which were leather and not very fluffy, and helped Tamara lean back.

  Outside, Fin flipped on two enormous rooftop floodlights that slowly hummed to attention. As they warmed up, the lights threw their illumination about thirty feet across the water in front of his house. With the tide all the way in, the water completely submerged the sandy area below where Coco had played the other evening. The thought sent a violent shiver through Giselle. The ocean roared toward the house, violently meeting the rocky break below and sending rooster tails of spray into the black air. The ocean hissed each time it made its way back out.

  “Do the waves ever come up to the windows?” Giselle asked, stroking Tamara’s hair.

  “During storms,” Fin said, stepping back in. “This is high tide—that’s as high as it’ll get. But during a storm, yeah, the waves hit the glass. It’s kind of awe-inspiring.”

  “It doesn’t scare you?”

  He shook his head. “I respect it.”

  “It scares me.”

  He gave her a gentle nod, then searched for some long matches, which he carried back out onto the balcony to light four tiki torches that stood taller than he did. As the flames sputtered to life, Giselle watched him from behind. He stood with his hands low on his hips, watching the water. The torches cast golden flickers across his profile, lending ritualistic tones. His jaw set like some sort of Polynesian god, thinking back through the way the evening had played out, perhaps.

  Giselle didn’t want to, but she turned away, to attend to Tamara, who—surprisingly—was crashed against Fin’s uncomfortable leather pillow.

  • • •

  “You know you can’t leave tonight.” Fin handed Giselle a Beatles’ Abbey Road mug, then set down his own, one with Darth Vader on the side, and climbed to join her on the brick-lined concrete ledge, where their legs dangled over the waves below.

  He had changed clothes. He was now barefoot, wearing a simple pair of cargo shorts, with a navy T-shirt that had the logo of one of his sponsors splashed across the back. They watched the surf for a second. The rooster tails created an awesome show, the floodlights giving the white foam and black water a movie-reel intensity. Every third wave threw off just enough sea spray to send a sticky sheen across her legs, just below the hem of her yellow skirt. She clutched her sweater closer and sipped her coffee.

  “You’re not letting me leave?” she asked playf
ully.

  Fin glanced back at Tamara asleep on the couch. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to be caught alone with my boss’s wife passed out in my living room. So, no.”

  “You need a chaperone?”

  “Well.” He took a sip from his mug and thought about that. “Not with her.” He avoided Giselle’s eyes.

  A breeze blew up off the navy water, and she pulled her sweater tighter.

  “I’m not sure how Fox is going to react to all this,” he said. “I have the sense he’s either going to beat the crap out of me or fire me.”

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “I’m sure when he asked me to take her to Javier’s, he didn’t mean for me to get her plastered and running through downtown Laguna.”

  “She’s a grown woman, Fin. It’s not your fault,” she repeated.

  He took a sip of his drink and eyed the water as if he weren’t entirely certain.

  “Is Fox really cheating on her?”

  Fin gave a snort of disgust. “There’s no way that’s true. She just had too much to drink. I never met a man more crazy about a woman.”

  A hum slipped from Giselle’s lips, but she realized it sounded wistful. She cut it short and quickly took a sip of coffee.

  Fin glanced at her. “Maybe all marriages start out that way.” His voice sounded conversational, but the comment was laden with a question.

  “I only have experience with one,” Giselle said.

  “So did yours?”

  She winced. Fin may not speak all that much, but when he did, he zeroed right in on what he wanted to know. She took another sip so she could compose herself before answering.

  “I don’t recall that stage, actually.” She kept her voice prim and emotionless.

  “Tell me about it,” Fin prompted.

  “You don’t want to know about my marriage.” Giselle couldn’t decide whether Fin was flirting in some odd way or teasing her. All she knew was that talking about her marriage made her feel like a terrible failure.

  “Maybe I do.” His eyes met hers. But, instead of pressing, he turned back toward the ocean. They watched the navy water wash in below. “You fascinate me,” he finally said.