Island Promises (18 page)

The sun had set and the night had come on like a heavy blanket, deep and dark and suddenly. At the end of her spine, he grabbed her butt with both of his hands. Through the flimsy cloth of her shorts she could feel the roughened calluses of the hands of a man who sailed for a living. She was quivering now. Putty. A slobbering, unthinking mass of reaction. There was nothing to do but follow him, into the cabin; into the world of safety and bliss he created for them.

The next morning Riley, alone on
Reprieve,
was working on her middle toe, the bane of her existence, trying to get the polish just right, when the little envelope appeared and the computer rang out once. An e-mail had come in. She reached around and moved the mouse to open it, then went back to her toe while the message came up on the screen. She always saved the middle toes for last; they were such a pain. They rubbed on either side, they were a little crooked, and they were ticklish.

When the “from” line came up, she put the brush back, closed the polish, and sat up straighter to read.

She read it once, twice, and then let out a loud
whoop
that sent seagulls flying off the dock. New York officially wanted her. The network was calling. This was what she had dreamed of since her days in journalism school. Not only did they like the pirate story, they liked her.

They were offering a job. National correspondent. Roaming the country, finding stories, putting them on film. She’d made it to the big time.

Wet toes be damned, Riley stood and did a clumsy jig in the saloon, pieces of old rag she had used as separators, flying from between her toes. Her mind was racing. She’d cook a celebration dinner. No, she forgot she didn’t cook. She’d take them all out to Rosalee’s. But her credit card had been carried away by the mud. Well,
whatever
, she’d get someone to buy something and they’d eat and drink and celebrate.

As quickly as she had jumped up to dance a jig she sat down heavily. New York. The network. That meant no more Shalee Islands. No more
Reprieve
. No more Rosalee’s or Mitchell or Anthony. And, especially, no more Joe.

But this opportunity would not knock again. She pictured herself flying from place to place, showing her network news credentials, being treated as a big shot. The next moment she pictured the hotel rooms, all the same, eating alone, being connected to her colleagues through impersonal e-mails and cell calls.

A pain shot down her sides and settled in her stomach. Her legs suddenly felt heavy and leaden. Her eyes throbbed. The network meant no more nights cradled in Joe's arms. She had just begun to feel safe, borderline happy, and nearly loved. An hour ago she’d thought there was time to let it develop. To see if what they had would carry them into the future. Never in a million years did she picture herself being torn when the network called. With RK there would have been no decision. If she hesitated, he would have shoved her, hard. With them, the job came first and always.

She clicked the computer to read the e-mail again when a ding sounded indicating Joe had incoming mail. He often left his account open. She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t be snooping in Joe’s e-mails. But she was a reporter. Snooping came as naturally to her as breathing. If he really didn’t want anyone reading what was there, he should have set more security settings. He was very reluctant to share so she had to resort to this.

Her head resting on her bended knee, Riley read. As she did so, the polish smeared across her dreaded middle toe and down the top of her foot. Not caring what happened, she shifted her feet underneath her on the chair and concentrated on the computer screen.

“How could he . . .?” she said to herself. One reading not enough, she had to go back and make sure. Was there something she was missing here? Was this some kind of joke she didn’t understand? It read:

Joe,

You old sea dog. How in the hell are you? It’s been way too long, man, way too long. Soak up some of that tropic sun before we head out to the frozen north. Won’t be seeing too many bikinis up there.

Seriously, I met with the research project people. This will be a great opportunity. Sailing into areas where few people have ever gone. Spring comes late up there but we need to be ready to move when it breaks.

Anyways, their timeline looks like about six weeks out when they want us on the ground in Greenland. Guess it will take some time to put everything together, get all the supplies cuz God knows they don’t have convenience stores where we’re going.

Can’t think of anyone I’d rather be going into this with. Figure about a year, maybe two. But who knows? We do good, these scientific types do good, and the powers that be maybe will cough up some more dough.

Looking forward to working with you again. Let me know your ETA in New York. We can hook up and fly out together.

Les

Riley didn’t like the sick feeling that gripped her. Greenland? What the hell was this? Was Joe taking
Reprieve
to Greenland? Or just going off on his own? She felt as though someone had let all the air out of her lungs and she was left gasping and struggling. How could he do this? What about all the things he’d whispered to her in the dark while
Reprieve
bumped gently against the dock, rocking them into each other?

Half asleep he’d tell her how beautiful she was, how much he liked having her in his life, how peaceful he felt tangled up in her. He hadn’t said he loved her. He’d stopped just short of that. But she felt his love flowing from him.

Lately she had had this strange sense of peace and serenity. In Chicago, she was always on edge, always had her game on. By the end of the day her shoulders ached and her neck was stiff from the tension that lurked on the periphery of whatever she did, wherever she went.

In the past few weeks, her shoulders had relaxed and the tension in her neck had eased. She laughed a lot more, worried a lot less. She was developing the island attitude—if it didn’t happen exactly on time or exactly as planned, so what? Things would unfold in their own time, in God’s time.

Riley was pulled from her thoughts by the wake of a powerboat, going too fast to its dock, creating a backwash that rocked
Reprieve
like a helpless child. On a dock nearby, someone yelled and then other voices joined in. In several different languages they were swearing at the skipper, telling him to slow down. Like a lovesick teenager, Riley stared at the computer screen, willing it to be a figment of her imagination. But it was there. Les’ screen name was ‘lesismore’ and he wrote from one of the biggest Internet providers. She ran a quick search but his profile was empty. No clues as to who Les was or why he was writing to Joe about a project in Greenland.

Gathering up her nail polishing supplies, Riley dumped them all into the trash. The polish was a lost-and-found item, almost empty, no big loss. Her left foot was beautifully manicured, but her right foot was a mess. Her middle toe had a slash of bright orange polish which ran down her foot. Globs had settled over the other toes, which had already been done, giving them the appearance of a pumpkin with acne.

She grabbed the printout she’d made and headed for the deck, suddenly finding the cabin cramped and lacking in air. First, she reached for the sun and took in long, steady breaths, trying to calm herself. It was a trick she’d learned when she’d done a story on yoga. Although it rarely worked, she kept trying because the yogi had claimed it brought you back to your center, calmed your body, and opened your mind.

As she sat in the settee, her right leg was bouncing and her mind was going a hundred miles a minute. Little by little, as though a calamity survivor, she took in what the e-mail meant. First, it was not a joke. There was no hint of a joke in it. Second, Les didn’t ask whether Joe wanted to do this. He had just announced they would meet in New York and head out to Greenland.

A fishing boat, an old, colorful vessel with an even older engine that reverberated throughout the harbor, was on its way in. She focused on it, watching the fishermen, barefoot and bareheaded, scrambling around the deck getting the lines ready to dock, laughing with each other, happy to be off the water and with a catch that would translate into pay day in their hold. This was a stunning scene. The beautiful colorful boat framed against the bright sky. So beautiful it made Riley want to cry. She let herself do that for a few moments and then she wiped the tears away, and stood up. She ripped the e-mail into tiny pieces and let them fly off into the breeze, settling on the water, disappearing as they became saturated. In a moment she would go below and delete this e-mail.

It didn’t matter that she’d been thinking about leaving for New York herself. Joe had lied to her. All those whispered conversations in the night about how he’d found what he was looking for, how it didn’t get any better, how he’d found paradise in her arms, in this place. That entire time he was planning on leaving. The irony was that she had started to believe what he said. When he held her at night and talked about the next time they went to Bobby’s Creek or next year when they upgraded the lockers on Reprieve, she pictured herself a part of it. She’d let herself believe that there was a future here. That the easy, happy life she was finding here would continue and flourish.

How could she have been that wrong? Was she deceiving herself? Obviously he had been conning her, telling her bedtime stories. But it hadn’t felt like that. No, she had come to believe they were building something real and solid. Well, she hadn’t worked her way up from a station in the middle of cow country where the biggest story was the annual milking contest to one of the most prestigious TV news operations in the country by being naïve and getting her feelings hurt. Damn it, she would not give into hurt. She would be angry and she would get even. Joe had no idea who he was dealing with, but he was about to find out.

The motorcycle jerked to a stop in front of the police station. The bike rocked perilously for a moment until Millie remembered to stomp her feet down on either side for stability. She climbed off, fiddled with the kickstand, and took off her helmet. Her long, black hair had weathered the ride well and was still contained in the tight ponytail she wore.

“That was fun. I think I’m getting the hang of it. Chicago traffic would be a lot better if people rode these. But then in the snow, that might be a problem.” Millie chattered away, oblivious to the fact that Riley was frozen in place. When Millie stopped the bike, Riley had forced her stiff leg muscles to bend over the bike so that she could get off. Now she stood rooted to the ground, unable to get a signal from her brain to her muscles. Did everyone on this island drive like a maniac? Or only her friends?

Millie placed her helmet on the bike. “It should be safe here,” she said. “After all, this is the police station.” She nodded at Riley. “You can put yours next to it.”

When Riley’s fingers shook so badly she couldn’t undo the chinstrap, Millie helped her.

“Oh, wow,” she said. “You’ve got some really weirded out helmet hair going. And all on one side. The helmet must have slipped when we hit that curve in the road really fast.” Millie laughed. “Yeah, that was a trip, huh? I’m really proud I kept it on the road.”

She pulled a comb out of her bag. “Let’s fix this a little bit so you don’t look like the crazy woman you sometimes are.” She went to work on Riley’s hair. One side, where the helmet settled, was plastered to her head with sweat. The other side, which had been open to the wind, was a bushy, tangled mess. Millie worked on that side until the comb broke.

“Good thing I was done fixing it,” she said. “Damn cheap plastic.” She threw the broken comb back into her bag. “OK, let’s do this.” It was what she always said before a big story. Millie walked toward the building before she realized that Riley wasn’t moving. “You need some help here getting started?” She took Riley by the elbow and helped her shuffle a few feet forward.

“I . . . didn’t know . . . you could d-d-drive,” Riley stuttered. Her mouth was dry, her teeth and gums gritty with things she didn’t even want to think about.

“That’s the amazing thing.” Millie’s joy was downright aggravating. “I have a license. I got it when I was a kid. But I never really drove after that. Well, to be honest, I didn’t drive after the accidents. Kind of spooked me. That’s before I knew I needed glasses. Since I’ve been here Henri’s given me a whole new perspective. He’s teaching me and giving me confidence. He says I’m getting to be a really good driver.”

Riley began to cough so hard and long that she bent over and Millie pounded her on the back. The choking fit loosened her muscles and Riley found she could straighten up, unclench her hands, and move her legs in a somewhat normal manner.

It was pleasant in the building—the mature palm trees outside and the thick walls held the night’s coolness long into the middle of the day. It was as Riley remembered, sparsely furnished with old metal desks and filing cabinets, bare walls, stacks of boxed documents. This wasn’t a place anyone wanted to make homey or welcoming.

“Wonder where they all went?” Millie asked. “I didn’t see any signs saying they were closed or out to lunch.”

“I am here.” A vision in a long, beautiful, flowing dress appeared from one of the back offices carrying a pile of folders. She was tall and regal, jet-black hair pulled back from a high forehead. Beautifully carved earrings fell against her sculpted neck. Her features were well-spaced, her skin glowing. Tall and lithe she wore the flowered dress like a model on a runway. Riley gaped. This could be Millie if she had some color, some fashion sense, and some idea of how to carry herself.

“Is Captain Juarez here?” Millie asked.

“Did you have an appointment?” The woman placed the folders in the open drawer of one of the file cabinets. “He did not tell me he was expecting anyone.”

“We came about . . . my . . . passport.” Pleased, Riley noted that her speech was getting better. The adrenaline that had pumped thorough her system fueling her fear as Millie had screeched through the streets honking the horn at everything that got in her way or took the hairpin roads way too fast, was ebbing. “My name is Riley S-S-Santey.”

“I know who you are.” The woman had a poise and calmness about her that made Riley want to fidget.

“Well, then, that should make it easier,” Millie said. “You know who Riley is. You work here. You must know about the passport. You give it to us. Simple. It’s done.”

The big brown eyes stayed on Riley even as Millie spoke. “There is the complicated matter of the law,” she said.

Riley looked into those eyes, sized them up and decided the best course of action was definitely not honesty. She’d have a better shot a bluffing.