The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

  Fin frowned, confused for a minute. What did Fox think he was really looking for? Did Fox mean the longer-term contract? Not competing? Beating Caleb with airs?

  “And that would be . . .” He left the bitter words hanging, daring Fox to fill them in.

  “That would be Giselle, you idiot.”

  The floor shifted under Fin as he watched the rays of sun open up and spread like spotlights over daytime Ballito.

  “I’m talking about love, you asshole,” Fox went on. “I asked you to bring someone to the gallery who looked sophisticated to you, who you could be photographed with, because I knew you’d zero in on someone you thought you couldn’t have. But that’s what you needed, Fin. You don’t think you deserve what you do deserve. You want someone smart. Sophisticated. Someone you respect. You want a home. A family . . . And that’s exactly who you brought.”

  Fin steadied himself against the hotel dresser and sucked some air into his lungs. It all seemed so obvious now. He was obsessed with Giselle because she represented everything he ever wanted: home, normalcy, tradition, peace, a place to come back to, a place you could be yourself and fall softly at the end of each day. He’d been searching for perfect waves all his life—there was, truly, always a next one. But with Giselle there wasn’t a “next one.” She was it. She was his perfect wave. She was his perfect moment.

  A ray outside caught a metal scroll on top of a whitewashed steeple and bounced the light back into his face.

  “I don’t suppose you have contracts for Indiana.” His voice came out as a wheeze as he pushed the words through his airway. He doubled over and pressed his palm on the dresser top.

  “No.” Fox chuckled. “But let me think on this. I might have an idea. . . . And I saw your girl, by the way.”

  Fin concentrated on breathing. “What?”

  “The day she caught her plane. I met her ex, too. So he knew Jennifer?”

  Fin kept trying to assemble the shards that Fox seemed to keep throwing. “What do you mean?”

  “He was at Jennifer’s funeral.”

  “Roy was?” It was as if the shards were all supposed to line up, like a puzzle, but too many pieces were mismatched.

  “In the back. I thought you remembered him.”

  “He was there?”

  “Yeah. It took me about an hour after I met him, but then I remembered that’s how I knew him. I was standing right next to him in the back of the church that day. We both came in late. He left before the service ended, I remember. He must’ve known Jenn. Maybe that’s why he’s so wrought up about you?”

  Fin stared at the rays dancing through the city. Roy? At Jennifer’s funeral? A sickening thud fell into his stomach that Giselle might have known her, too, but why would she have kept it a secret?

  “Maybe,” was all he said.

  “Anyway, do well tomorrow,” Fox said. “Even if you’re retiring, you can go out on a high note. What boards are you using? Use something that’ll show up on camera and might garner you a contract even after you retire.”

  “Are you advising me as my agent now, Fox?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Just thinking. Tamara’s tired of all the traveling and drama with Mahina. I thought maybe you could use someone. Make your woman happy—that’s smart, Fin. It’ll make you happy, too.”

  All Fin could do was nod. “I’ll call you after my heat.”

  “Good luck, man.”

  After five or six deep breaths—to put the world back on its axis—Fin unpacked his laptop and fired it up with R.J.’s converter.

  He steadied himself into the hotel desk chair and began clicking through some old e-mails. A niggling thought kept itching the back of his brain.

  Fin found some of Jennifer’s old e-mails, when she’d been traveling in Costa Rica a couple years ago and had sent him a flurry of correspondence to tell him about the trip. She had tried to convince him that her affair wasn’t so terrible—that this married man planned to leave his family, truly wanted her—so she’d sent photos about the great time they were having as “proof.”

  Fin, of course, had felt compelled to argue with her. This man would never leave his family. They never do. And Jennifer had told Fin, in no uncertain terms, that she respected his opinion, but she believed otherwise. That was the last time she’d talked about it.

  Fin clicked through his folders. He kept pictures his acquaintances sent of good surf—Barritz in the south of France, Jay Bay in Australia, Cape St. Francis in South Africa. He scrolled through all of them until he came to Costa Rica.

  He ran the curser down until he found the one he wanted: “Me and Mystery Man, Costa Rica.”

  He blinked back the shot of pain that coursed through his veins whenever he saw Jennifer’s smiling face again. But then, as he took in the rest of the picture he’d barely recalled, he felt the blood drain from his head.

  Jennifer was standing next to Roy.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-seven

  The orders rolled in.

  Giselle couldn’t believe it, but she was able to sell fifty individual photos she’d taken of Jezzy, Corky, and the boys as packages to their agents and managers. They used them for press releases, websites, social media avatars, and more, and a couple asked whether she could take photos of their other athletes, most of whom were surfers but a few tennis players and race-car drivers. Jezzy’s agent was so insistent he wanted to fly her to Florida that week to capture an athlete in his hometown.

  She sighed and told him no. She couldn’t leave Coco right now. She’d just signed her up for a Daisy Scout troop that had a few “adventures” that week. She could comfortably leave Coco with a grandparent or aunt, but she didn’t feel right leaving her with a babysitter overnight. It was one of the 800 times this week she thought about living in Sandy Cove, near Lia and Lovey.

  And, of course, Fin.

  When he was home. Which wouldn’t be often.

  She sighed and glanced at the statue on the mantelpiece. He hadn’t called her once. Of course, he’d sent her the beautiful statue. She’d called to thank him again, but got his voice mail. She’d stuttered through the thanks and hung up quickly, afraid again to sound like a groupie. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Lia had said.

  But that didn’t stop her from watching him compete all week. She’d found daily video coverage from Fuel TV on her computer, and had tuned in every night. She’d watched Fin flying through the air in incredible feats of athleticism, coasting through barrels, pushing his board into the walls of the wave, pumping his legs into acrobatic turns, and smiling back at the crowd as they roared for him. Coco came to watch, too, and they clapped and hugged at the end of every set. Giselle closed her laptop every night with a smile on her face.

  The smell of furniture polish wafted up now from the old antique desk in the living room as she settled into its wooden seat in front of the computer. It was a desk from Roy’s family that neither of them had used much, mostly because it had an uncomfortable formality about it, but for now it was better than using Roy’s old office.

  She fired up the computer, although she had an hour before she could catch the next competition. In the meantime, she’d toy around with Photoshop. She might start using it for some of her new projects. She opened old photo files—most of which were Roy’s from heart conferences—and thought about trashing them all to start clean. He probably had backups already. But, just to be nice, she grouped them into one folder, and she’d ask him. They were labeled Austria, Heart and Health Convention; Singapore, Cardiovascular Institute Convention; Seattle, HeartBeat Convention—and they all went into a new folder she entitled “Roy’s Crap.” She giggled at her curse word.

  As she dragged folder upon folder, a strange one caught her eye. It was labeled “Costa Rica” but didn’t have a conference name. She hadn’
t remembered him ever going there. She opened the first photo and saw a beautiful beach hut—hammocks strewn between poles, hibiscus in vases. It was gorgeous, but she couldn’t place what the photo was, or what it was doing there. She clicked through the remaining photos: They looked like resort pictures. Roy’s suitcase was in one of them, and some of his clothes were on one of the beds. No people were in any of them. When she got to the last photo, however, her hand froze.

  Roy was in that one, a goofy grin over his hibiscus shirt.

  But that was not what made her heart stop.

  What made her heart stop was that his arm was wrapped possessively around Jennifer Andre.

  • • •

  The Ballito skies opened to the morning sun, casting the water in a turquoise blue and sending long, glassy tubes of surf to race parallel with the shoreline.

  Fin glanced at his other competitors in the tent—they were down to four now. He was pitted against Jose Manilla.

  He tugged his competition jersey over his head.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about what Fox had said. It was what his dad always spouted. His dad had given up professional surfing when he was about Fin’s age, claiming the competition took the love out of the sport, and it was better to get your money somewhere else so you didn’t have to confuse your love for surfing with your need to earn a living. That way you could hold on to that joy that overcame you when you rode out of a barrel after a two-minute ride with the universe. All his dad needed, he’d said time and time again, was “his good woman, his good love, and three meals a day.”

  For the first time, after talking with Fox yesterday, Fin’s dad’s words made sense. What he was feeling with Giselle was a connection he’d never felt before—a moment of opening his heart to the universe, or at least to this one person, and letting her in. He wanted Giselle. And Coco. And a feeling of family. And Thanksgiving at Giselle’s mom’s house, and crazy relatives around the table. He wanted Giselle in his bed every morning, and more of those mornings where something was more important than surfing. He wanted Coco’s knock-knock jokes in the evening out on the lounge chairs, and more of those moments when she’d touch the bridge of his nose with concern and pucker her little eyebrows with satisfaction that his boo-boo was healed. He wanted Giselle’s vanilla scent, and her grateful smile when her eyes lit upon a work of art or anything she found gorgeous. He wanted birthday cakes and birthday songs sung by a motley chorus of people who seemed to love you. Unconditionally. In that moment. Or forever. He wanted family that would stick.

  The announcer called his and Jose’s names, and Fin jogged out into the surf. He glanced at Jose. The kid reminded Fin of himself at that age—hungry, not sure of his place in the world, focused on the surf and nothing else because it seemed like the only thing you had. Fin threw his board down into the water, leaped onto his stomach, and began paddling out. He nodded for Jose to go first.

  As a beautiful rise came, Fin straddled his board, pushed the water out of his face, and watched Jose take it like an aerial artist in the new-school moves the judges loved. He couldn’t help but grin for him.

  Fin scanned the horizon for his wave. He passed on the next two, and took the third, his heart thudding when he saw the curl of the tube. He pictured Giselle watching and thought he’d show her what pure joy looked like, pure love. Sticking to what he did well, he showcased one of his old-school specialties: ducking to ride through the barrel, his hand dragging along the water wall. He wouldn’t score high for this. The judges were focused on aerials. But Fin didn’t care.

  It was, truly, a perfect moment.

  Because he’d just realized he was in love.

  And he was about to go—for the first time in his life—home.

  • • •

  Giselle’s hand shook as she picked up the old-style landline from the antique desk. She wanted to be looking at the pictures when she made this call.

  She waited until Coco was playing in the backyard, creating a campsite for her Polly Pockets in a terra-cotta planter whose geraniums had died.

  When Roy answered, she cut right to the chase: “Were you having an affair with Jennifer Andre in Costa Rica?”

  The silence on his end lengthened into oblivion. After a moment, she wasn’t sure he’d even picked up the phone. “Roy?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Yes’ you’re there, or ‘yes’ you had an affair with Jennifer Andre?”

  “Both.”

  She felt as though a diesel truck ran over her stomach. She’d known he’d had the two affairs, but this made a third. And this one had obviously lasted for years, overlapping the others. And this one was Jennifer Andre. With beautiful eyes, and a long life ahead of her. With parents and friends who wanted the best for her. And who was now dead.

  “Were you the married man she was seeing when she died?”

  “Yes.” His voice was small.

  “Did you promise her you were going to leave your wife?”

  “Giselle, please.”

  “Did you promise, Roy?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It—”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Why? What good does it do you?”

  “I want to know how much of a slime you are.”

  He paused.

  “The more I learn what a weasel you were, the less I feel guilty about our marriage breaking up. I’m realizing, more and more, that it was all you. There was nothing wrong with me, Roy: There’s something wrong with you.”

  He sighed into the phone, apparently not planning to argue that.

  “Is this why you were so adamant that I not see Fin? It wasn’t about Fin not being safe for me and Coco, was it? You didn’t want him to recognize you.”

  “He didn’t, by the way. You didn’t find the sharpest knife in the drawer, Giselle.”

  “Damn you, Roy!” The swearword came out of nowhere, along with a heat around her ears, as well as a protectiveness for Fin and even Jennifer. She didn’t know how to process all of her emotions, but she was determined to speak them, even determined to feel them fully.

  “Did you give her those drugs?” she whispered, reality dawning.

  “Giselle, I wasn’t anywhere near Tahiti when that happened.”

  “But you could have prescribed them.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Roy? Did you prescribe her those Xanax?”

  “Listen, Jennifer Andre was a grown woman. She could make her own decisions. I wasn’t responsible for what she did.”

  Giselle recoiled at the words, almost exactly what she’d told Fin. But Fin had taken on the responsibility, knowing that when you loved someone, you were responsible for their heart, and their emotions, and where their emotions were going. Apparently, Roy hadn’t gotten that memo in medical school.

  And it made her love Fin all the more.

  “You’re despicable,” she whispered.

  Her mind was whirling, trying to put all the pieces together. “Did your parents know you were seeing her?”

  “My dad knew.”

  Another spear of pain shot through her. “Did your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Is this why you never wanted me in California?” The idea that he’d kept her away from her family because of his own secretive, despicable life—and that she’d allowed it—shot another dagger into her soul.

  “Listen, Giselle—”

  “No, you listen, Roy.” She was trembling. She’d never felt her rage before. She’d always tamped down her anger, looked the other way at things that were obvious, to keep a perfect façade of a perfect life. But no more. She was facing the rubble head-on.

  “You’ve ruined their lives,” she went on. “Not only Jennifer’s, of course—stringing her along when all she wanted was love. You denied that girl the experience of true, honest love in her
short life. And you’ve ruined her family’s lives—they have no answers; they don’t know what drove their daughter to sadness. They could be blaming themselves. And you’ve ruined Fin’s life. He’s the most decent man I’ve met in ages—trying to love properly, trying to take care of the people in his life—and he feels guilty for Jennifer’s death. He blames himself when he should blame you. And the public blames him—and has almost destroyed his career—when it was you, Roy. You’re responsible for so much destruction. . . .”

  Giselle’s head began to pound. She gripped the edge of the desk. “I want you to fund a scholarship for her in Fin’s name.”

  “What?”

  After she blurted it out, she wasn’t sure where it had come from, but the idea crystallized right in front of her: “The scholarship was just started, but I want you to donate fifty thousand a year for the next forty years—I’ll get you the address.”

  “Giselle, you can’t—”

  “If you don’t want me to go through the press, and drag your name through the mud, and point someone in the direction of your prescription pad, you’ll do this, Roy. You’ll do it for me. And for Fin.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “Think of it as a friendly persuasion. It’s the least you could do.”

  She glanced at the sculpture of “La Valse” on her mantel, of the man dancing with the woman—or perhaps saving her.

  “I already have the ideal logo,” she added.

  • • •

  Still shaking, Giselle drove Coco to her first Daisy Scout meeting, then came home to her empty house.

  She took out the trash, straightened her new desk, tried to forget about Roy, and dusted the dining table, glancing at the clock and hoping the next hour would go by so she could go get her daughter.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Surprised, she shuttled through the entryway, hauled the door open, and was stunned to see . . . Well, it took a moment to coordinate the image. She struggled to put together his sun-kissed hair, his gray-and-white board shorts, and his tanned wrist leaning near her brick-lined Indiana doorbell—all with her suburban summer lawn behind him, and Mrs. O’Dell out there in her front yard, selecting roses. He was a sea horse on a prairie.