Island in the Sea (21 page)

“Marbella was a little fishing village after World War Two,” Henry said. “Prince Alfonso of Hohenlohe-Lagenburg bought an estate and invited Frank Sinatra and Brigitte Bardot and Sophia Loren. Other celebrities heard about it and brought their yachts and sports cars. In the 1970s they expanded Málaga airport and the Costa del Sol became one of the most sought after holiday destinations.

“I played my first tournament at Los Monteros when I was seventeen. I glanced around the court at women in silver miniskirts and men wearing Gucci loafers and thought I'd never seen so many beautiful people. Then I won first place and they placed a wreath around my neck and popped a bottle of champagne and I thought I had the best job in the world.”

Juliet nodded. “Stefan said you have the fastest serve on the circuit. He thinks you could win the Grand Slam.”

“I used to love to feel my shins burn and my shoulders ache. I'd slam the ball over the net and know I was going to be the best player in the world,” he mused. “Now I'd rather share a bottle of red wine and a plate of seafood paella.

“After the season ends I might open a tennis clinic in Santa Barbara. I've always liked California, the people are friendly and the scenery is spectacular and the fresh fruit is delicious.” He touched her hand. “I can't stop thinking about you. I want to stroll on the beach in Santa Monica and visit wineries in Ojai.”

“I only leave the office to pick up a chicken salad from Trader Joe's or a latte from Starbucks,” Juliet replied. “On weekends I'm usually backstage at the Hollywood Bowl or at a nightclub listening to a new band.”

“There's no hurry, but maybe in a few years you'll do something else,” Henry suggested. “Work part-time and teach music at UCLA.”

Juliet ate a bite of lamb and her stomach clenched. She reached for a glass of water and could barely swallow. She pushed back her chair and rushed to the bathroom.

*   *   *

Juliet stood in front of the beveled mirror and took deep breaths. Her hair had escaped its ceramic clip and her forehead had a light sheen.

It had been lovely sitting across from Henry, nibbling lobster salad. She gazed at his brown eyes and blond hair and couldn't wait to go back to their room. Then she ate the last bite of lamb and her stomach rose to her throat.

Maybe the lamb was bad or she was allergic to lobster. She remembered Henry talking about moving to Santa Barbara and shivered. That couldn't possibly have anything to do with it; she would love him to live in California.

She stood at the mirror and smoothed her hair behind her ears. She rubbed her lips with red lipstick and felt her knees buckle. She collapsed onto the velvet daybed and put her head in her hands.

*   *   *

“I don't know what happened. Maybe I drank too much wine and didn't have enough to eat,” Juliet said. “I had so much fun at your match I forgot to have lunch.”

They had left the restaurant and returned to their suite. Juliet unzipped her dress and slipped on a cotton robe. Now she sat on the four-poster bed, sipping a glass of water.

Henry nodded. “The Mediterranean sun is stronger than it looks. I should have insisted you have a burger and shake.”

“I'm sorry, I spoiled our dinner.” Juliet blushed. “I was looking forward to the caramel flan for dessert.”

“There's a lot to look forward to, but we're not in a rush.” Henry touched her chin. “I'll sleep in the living room so you get a full night's rest. I often slept on the sofa when I was touring. When I started doing tournaments, I'd share a suite with two other players.”

“Are you sure?” Juliet asked. “You played a hard match, you should sleep in a bed.”

“The sofa is handcrafted Italian leather.” He grinned, grabbing a pillow. He leaned forward and pressed his thumb on her mouth. “I'll see you in the morning.”

*   *   *

Juliet stood at the sliding glass doors and gazed at the lush gardens. She inhaled the scent of damp grass and tried to stop her head from spinning.

She had taken two aspirin but still couldn't sleep. She must have caught a summer flu and they'd laugh about it in the morning. She pictured eating muesli and pineapple and Henry teasing her that she'd do anything to have the bed to herself.

She climbed onto the four-poster bed and drew the crisp cotton sheets around her shoulders. What if she wasn't really sick, what if she wasn't ready? Maybe Lionel was right and she didn't know how to fall in love. She closed her eyes and let the tears stream down her cheeks.

chapter twenty

L
IONEL LIT A CIGARETTE WITH
a pearl lighter and inhaled slowly. He picked up the magazine and turned the page. He tossed it on the glass coffee table and ground the cigarette into a silver ashtray.

He had slept remarkably well and woke up with new energy. He swam twenty laps in the pool and did sit-ups on the terrace. Then he poured a cup of fresh coffee and carried Gloria's scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes into the conservatory.

He picked up the copy of
Rolling Stone
and glanced at it warily. He had stopped reading it years ago, it usually had articles with terms he didn't understand and an undeserving artist on the cover. But now he couldn't help turning the page, like someone curious to see his own obituary.

He glanced at articles about Lady Gaga and John Legend. He saw the picture of Gideon and sucked in his breath. Gideon wore a pastel Ralph Lauren blazer and stood in front of an ivory Bentley.

He remembered when he and Samantha insisted they would never own a Bentley; it was like driving around in an overstuffed living room. But now he gazed at the creamy interior and walnut steering wheel and felt a pit in his stomach.

He heard a knock at the door and called: “Come in, I'm in the conservatory.”

“It smells wonderful.” Juliet stood at the door. She wore a turquoise dress and silver sandals.

“Gloria makes very good eggs,” Lionel replied. “I taught her to cook with Tabasco sauce; my mother uses it on everything.

“Gideon is in
Rolling Stone
,” he continued. “Gideon and Amber and I were on the cover once. The headline said ‘Music's Golden Triumvirate.' It should have read ‘Svengali and His Puppets.'

“He must have made a deal with the devil, he keeps getting younger. His salt-and-pepper hair is from Fred Segal and his eyes are done by Dr. Andrew Ordon. I remember the first time he tried Botox, I wondered how anyone could inject himself with pig collagen.” He shuddered. “It's bad enough eating pork, I wouldn't want it living under my forehead.

“He always was an excellent dresser, he could walk into Fred Hayman's on Rodeo Drive and select which Calvin Klein blazer was the must-have piece of the season.” He stopped and glanced at Juliet. “That's a pretty dress, is it new?”

“It's Nina Ricci.” Juliet blushed. “I bought it at the hotel gift shop in Marbella.”

“How was the getaway?” Lionel asked. “Did you sit on a chaise longue at La Cabane and watch sailboats glide across the Mediterranean?”

Juliet nodded. “Los Monteros was gorgeous. The gardens were full of birds of paradise and pink flamingos. The suite had a marble fireplace and a basket of mangos and papaya.”

“Did you dance to Ella Fitzgerald in the moonlight?” Lionel mused. “Should I be expecting an announcement in
The Times
?”

“I got sick during dinner.” Juliet fiddled with her necklace.

“You got sick?”

“I thought I was going to faint, so we went back to the suite.” Juliet paused. “Henry slept in the living room.”

Lionel sprinkled pepper on eggs and took a large bite. He blotted his mouth with a napkin and looked at Juliet.

“People think they can change but they remain as constant as the statistics on their birth announcements. Women try a dozen different hair colors but at the end of the day they're still a brunette or redhead.” He paused. “I knew you didn't believe in love.”

“Of course I believe in love, I forgot to have lunch and got too much sun,” Juliet protested. “Henry was a perfect gentleman and put me to bed.”

“If you are in love you'll get soaked in the rain and ruin the leather seats in your convertible. You'll scale an iron gate and get bitten by a German shepherd.” He sat on a silk love seat and stretched his long legs in front of him. “And only when it's too late will you realize you would do it all again.”

*   *   *

Lionel walked to the marble bar and poured a glass of scotch. He glanced at the platter of stone wheat crackers and soft cheeses and realized he wasn't hungry. He gazed out the window at the rain falling on the hotel swimming pool and felt a weight press on his shoulders.

*   *   *

Ever since they agreed he should go on tour, Lionel had felt a chill in the air. Samantha stayed on campus, claiming it was easier to read books in the library. Lionel ate cheeseburgers and steak fries alone and fell asleep watching old Gary Cooper movies. In the morning she was gone before he shaved and showered. He glanced at her porcelain coffee cup and inhaled the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon and thought he had made a terrible mistake.

He remembered when his parents left him on his first day at boarding school. He pictured watching their Range Rover roll down the driveway and being gripped by a terrible panic. He remembered telling the headmaster his Irish setter was having puppies, and he had to go home and be with her.

He tried to think of the reasons he should go on tour, but they evaporated like rain after a thunderstorm. He could always write songs and find artists to sing them. It didn't matter if he was a footnote in
Billboard
's page for 1997 as long as they were together.

*   *   *

Now he drained his glass and knew he couldn't go through with it. He would tell Gideon he didn't care if the second album sunk faster than a torpedo. He couldn't possibly leave Samantha and he was crazy to think they could be apart.

He poured another glass of scotch and felt his shoulders relax. He had realized his error before it was too late, and everything was going to be all right. He picked up the phone and put it down. He would drive to Gideon's house in Beverly Hills and tell him in person. Then he would come home and he and Samantha would open a bottle of Möet & Chandon.

He drove down Gideon's long gravel driveway and buzzed the intercom. He gazed at the tall iron gates and sighed. Since Gideon had a stalker a few months ago, his house was as impenetrable as a medieval fortress. He climbed into an oak tree and grabbed the top of the fence. He tumbled onto the grass and was met by a large German shepherd.

“Hans Solo, it's me, Lionel.” He rubbed his shins. “I'm the guy who insisted Gideon feed you proper Alpo dog food instead of that spirulina crap Donovan recommended. I told him you're a dog, not bloody Popeye.” He paused, watching the dog sniff his leg. “You're upset because you're wet, I hate this weather too. If I wanted rain, I would have moved to Oregon, though I don't know if I could live somewhere where they pillage Shakespeare.
Othello
wasn't meant to be performed in a redwood forest by a bunch of actors wearing hemp shirts and Birkenstocks.

“If you let me get up, I'll tell Gideon to bring you inside and get you a towel and a brandy.” Lionel's teeth chattered. “There's nothing like a warm fluffy towel right out of the dryer.”

He rang the doorbell and waited for the door to open.

“Inga is probably in the kitchen making strudel.” Lionel glanced at the dog. “I don't know why Gideon needs a house with more rooms than Versailles.”

He rang the doorbell again and felt the rain fall on his shoulders. His Paul Smith shirt was wet and his Santoni loafers were ruined. Suddenly he turned and saw a car in front of the garage. He looked more closely and saw it was Samantha's yellow Honda.

He stepped back as if he had been punched in the stomach. Samantha said she was studying and then had a late semantics class. What was she doing at Gideon's?

He pressed himself against the entry and wondered what to do. He could wait for someone to answer but he already felt feverish. He glanced at Hans Solo's sharp teeth and worried the dog might blame him for being left outside and take a bite out of his ankle.

He would drive back to the Beverly Hills Hotel and take a hot shower. Samantha must have a simple explanation; she was planning a surprise party for his birthday or hosting a going away dinner at Spago's. They would laugh and climb into bed. Lionel would drink heated brandy and try to stop shivering.

He gazed up at the stone turrets and slate roof and wanted to leap through the window. But he saw the iron bars and thought it would be as easy to storm the house as to infiltrate a terrorist cell in Iran. He ran down the driveway and climbed over the fence. He put the car into reverse and roared away.

*   *   *

Lionel sat at the glass dining table in the suite's living room and cracked a soft-boiled egg. He sprinkled it with salt and took a small bite.

He remembered when he was a child and came down with the flu. His mother promised him ice cream when he got better. When he was finally well enough to sit up and eat a bowl of chocolate ice cream it made his throat burn. He pushed it away and drank a cup of warm milk with honey.

Now he glanced at the table set with rashers and whole wheat toast and pots of strawberry jam, and his throat closed up.

He had come home from Gideon's and saw the light blinking on the answering machine. He glanced at the familiar red button and his breathing relaxed. Samantha had left a message saying her class was canceled, and she stopped by Gideon's to pick up Lionel's new songs. She'd ask if he wanted anything from Safeway or Walmart and she'd be home in a minute.

But when he pressed
PLAY
he heard Gideon's voice on the machine.