Jennifer Haigh (25 page)

She left Pittsburgh in the aftermath of a snowstorm. As the jet rose from the tarmac she could see the flashing yellow lights of the snowplows, scraping the empty expanse of I-90.
Where am I going?
she thought. And then:
Away, away.

The trip had come about completely by accident. Heidi Kozak had booked it the summer before, but now her father, debilitated by Parkinson's, was moving into a nursing home; it was a bad time to leave town. The deposit was nonrefundable, she explained, only transferable.

"You can buy me out," she said."And PS, I really need the cash."

They were eating lunch in the museum cafeteria."Saint Raphael is a little slice of heaven," she promised."You'll have a blast."

"It sounds great," Gwen said, "but I can't."

Heidi understood that this no was automatic, a formality to be gotten through. She was not discouraged. She simply waited.

Gwen groped for an excuse, but none came to mind. Nothing, not the smallest thing, was keeping her in town. The Pittsburgh winter had arrived early and ferociously: a lake-effect storm had dumped a foot of snow on the city the day after Halloween. Work was slow; no one but Heidi would even notice her absence. The Toddlers continued to drive her crazy. Her unused vacation days beckoned.

Heidi knew all of this.

The silence opened between them. Normally it was Gwen's secret weapon, a tool she wielded with surgical precision. Other people feared it; faced with a lapse in the conversation they blinked, stammered, babbled incoherently. Her parents hated it. The Toddlers were particularly vulnerable. Faced with Gwen's silence they blushed and fidgeted, then scrambled to fill it, like lemmings leaping to their death. Only Heidi seemed to understand that Gwen didn't enjoy silence either. That sooner or later it would unnerve her, and she would be the one to speak.

"What are those dates again?" Gwen asked.

Heidi clapped delightedly. "You'll love it, I promise. You might never come back."

Gwen wrestled her bags through customs in Miami, boarded the small propeller plane, and landed on the island at noon. The blazing sun shocked her body, as though she'd been defibrillated. Her blue jeans clung unpleasantly to her sweaty legs. She peeled off her Steelers sweatshirt and tied the sleeves around her waist.

The Pleasures courtesy van was waiting outside the baggage claim, crammed already with guests and their luggage. Gwen climbed aboard and took a seat at the rear. The passengers were mostly women, chattering in pairs or threes.

"My sister came two years ago," said the woman to Gwen's left.

"She met her husband here."

The driver, an elderly black man in a parrot green uniform, took a quick head count. "Welcome to beautiful St. Raphael," he said, his English thick and heavily accented.

He started the engine. They drove into Pointe Mathilde, the island's capital city. The narrow streets were clogged with traffic; on either side were jewelry stores and tiki bars, T-shirt shops and barbecue joints. Brightly painted signs advertised Sailboard Rental, DutyFree Cigarettes, Live Topless Girls.

The van climbed a steep hill, its engine roaring. Gwen stared into the distance at the rocky cliffs, the turquoise-colored water down below, bordered by a thin strip of white sand. She counted the many long winters she'd spent in Pittsburgh, in the dim basement of the Stott, and thought:
This has been here all along.

"We getting close," said the driver."Pleasures is just ahead."

Now the road was lined with a tall hedge, dense and bursting with orange flowers. They passed through an ornamental iron gate. The long driveway—lined with palm trees and elaborate flower plantings—led to a white stucco building, its entrance shaded by a green awning. The van paused in the circular driveway. Gwen climbed out of the van and hefted her pack to one shoulder, her bag of diving gear to the other.

"Hey, little woman," the driver called."You need help with dose tings?"

Gwen grinned. Was it his accent that made
little woman
sound charming, not insulting? Or just the fact that he'd
said
it, joyfully and unapologetically, out loud?

The driver took her dive gear and handed it off to a porter. She walked into a sun-filled lobby, redolent of lilies. Huge potted palms marked the perimeter; at the center, under a high skylight, a tree bloomed with yellow flowers. She took her place in line at the front desk and dropped her bags to the floor.

She felt drunk on warmth and color, the blossomy fragrance. The gray Pittsburgh winter seemed far, far away.

"Gwen?"

She turned to see a woman her own age, deeply tanned, a square, solid woman with straight black hair hanging down her back. "I'm Miracle Zamora," she said, kissing Gwen's cheek. "Heidi described you perfectly. I'd know you anywhere."

Gwen smiled hesitantly. The unexpected touch—and the idea of being described
perfectly
—made her cheeks flush.

"I'll wait while you check in," said Miracle. "You're lucky I got here first. It took me all morning to find our room."

"Next," called the ebullient girl behind the desk. Gwen stepped up to the counter. "Welcome to Pleasures!" the girl said brightly, in a voice strikingly similar to that of the Allegheny Savings ATM back home. She looked down at Gwen, and confusion briefly clouded her face. She recovered admirably. "Welcome to our island paradise! Welcome reception, three o'clock in the Breezes lounge. Come alone, leave with a new friend!"

"Great," said Gwen, collecting her room keys and minibar card, her schedule of activities and map of the resort. "But I'm really here to scuba dive."

"Activities coordinator, extension 300. You can book dive excursions by phone."

Gwen followed Miracle across the courtyard, down a path lined with flower beds. She could feel her nose and cheeks already burning; her sunscreen was buried somewhere in her backpack.

They climbed an outdoor stairway. Their room was brightly decorated in pink and yellow, with a mirrored ceiling and two queensize beds. Miracle had already unpacked. Colorful sundresses hung in the closet. A dozen pairs of shoes were lined against one wall.

"That's all you brought?" Miracle marveled, eyeing Gwen's backpack.

"The porter is bringing my dive gear," said Gwen. "I try not to pack more than I carry."

"God, that's so smart. I almost killed myself going through customs. That thing weighs a ton." Miracle pointed to a half-empty suitcase lying open on the floor. It was the size of a coffee table.

"You brought all that for a week?"

"Shoes," Miracle explained. "Hurry up and change. There's that welcome thing at three."

Gwen hesitated. "I'm kind of wiped out from the flight. Maybe I'll stay here and unpack."

"Absolutely not," said Miracle. "This is where you meet everybody. If you miss it, you're screwed for the rest of the week. Besides, there's free champagne."

"Hello everybody, and welcome to Pleasures! I'm Trina, your cruise director"—the girl gave a little curtsy—"and this is Fall in Love Week!" Trina's enthusiasm was palpable; she seemed ready to faint from excitement. With her muscled calves and brief outfit—a white circle skirt that barely covered her bottom, like a summer figure-skating costume—she reminded Gwen of the hyperactive tennis instructors she'd suffered, years ago, at camp.

"This just might be the most important moment of the week," said Trina. "Our speed meet and greet! We know you've had it with the dating merry-go-round, so the love experts here at Pleasures have devised this superquick, superfun way to connect with the guy or girl of your dreams."

There was a polite smattering of applause, which Trina seemed to take as encouragement.

"Okay, here's how it works. We've got the girls against this wall."

She gestured toward the banquette, where Gwen and Miracle and a couple dozen other women sat at small round tables, drinking complimentary champagne from plastic flutes."And over at the bar, getting a head start on the festivities, we have the boys."

The girls were fortyish, a few younger. Most of the boys were bald. Gwen glanced around the room to see if anyone else found the terms ridiculous. No one looked amused.

"When you came in just now, our cupid-in-residence, Jamie"—Trina pointed to a plump young man in the parrot green Pleasures uniform—"gave you a scorecard." She held up a sheet of paper.

"Here you'll find all the girls listed by letter, and all the guys listed by number.

"Now when I give the signal, the guys are going to come into the atrium and pick a girl to sit with. You'll have exactly three minutes to get acquainted. Then Jamie will blow the whistle and you'll move on to the next lady in line."

God, no
, Gwen thought.

"Now, some of you guys might feel like staying a little longer with a certain lady," Trina continued, winking, "but remember, you've got to keep it moving, because the next guy in line is going to want his chance. Besides, there might be someone you like even better just around the corner.

"So after each introduction we'll give you a second to mark your scorecard: 'hot' or 'cold.' And when you come to dinner tonight, you'll find one of these"—Trina held up a parrot green envelope—"tucked under your plate. Whoops!" The envelope dropped from her fingers to the floor. She bent to pick it up. "Phone numbers, room numbers, everything you need to make a love connection with one of your hot prospects. How cool is that?"

Applause and wolf whistles from the bar. These may have had less to do with the green envelope than with the view as Trina bent to retrieve it in her tiny skirt.

"And here's the best part," she continued. "You'll already know that
every single
guy or girl on your list is already hot for you. Jamie and I will spend the afternoon going over every single scorecard, matching your hot list and their hot list. This way there's no rejection! No guesswork! You can cut right to the fun part."

Gwen scanned the room for an easy exit. Despite its name, the Breezes Lounge was shut tight as a crucible. The only way out seemed to be the French doors directly behind Trina, in full view of the crowd.

Wasn't that some kind of fire-code violation?
They do this on purpose
, she thought.

Trina removed her watch and held it up to show the crowd.

"Here we go! Gentlemen, start your engines."

A general commotion as the men charged across the room, holding short glasses or frosty mugs of beer. A few grinned sheepishly. Others clapped loudly, flushed and enthusiastic. It was a scene much like junior high gym class, the dreaded ballroom-dancing lesson: boys and girls compelled, for the first time, to touch.

Gwen drained her champagne as a man sat down opposite her.

"I'm Gwen," she said."Can you believe we're doing this?"

"Bobby." He looked to be in his early fifties, bald on top, his remaining hair gathered into a dark ponytail. His sweatpants were loose and patterned, the sort pro wrestlers wore.

"I think it's great," he said flatly."No game playing, no manipulation.

Two hours of bullshit, as opposed to two months or two years."

Gwen nodded politely.

"I'm recently divorced," he said."My wife lives in Denyle."

Where is that?
Gwen almost asked. Then thought:
Oh, right: denial.

"She has issues with depression, inhibited sexual desire, past sexual abuse. That's what I'm coming out of, you know? That's what I'm trying to avoid." He took a long drink from his mug."I like this forum because I can come right out and ask. Are you being treated for depression? Any sexual abuse in your past?"

"No," Gwen said."And no."

"See, that was easy. As opposed to fourteen years of prevarication and denial and passive-aggressive shit. Get it all out of the way in the beginning. It's a huge time saver."

"TIME!" Jamie called from the back of the room."Okay, time to move on. Everyone take a moment and mark your scorecards. Then you gentlemen are on to the next lovely lady."

Bobby rose, glancing at his scorecard. "What did you say your name was?"

"Heidi Kozak," said Gwen.

For two nights in a row she ate dinner alone on her balcony.

Balmy air brushed her bare arms and shoulders, lingering like a human touch. The second night the moon was full. Gwen imagined it hanging low, casting silver light over the gentle surf. She would take a walk shortly to verify this. Heidi and Miracle had booked a poolside room rather than a more expensive ocean-view suite. You could see the ocean
anywhere
, Miracle had explained. She was more interested in the human scenery, the bare pulchritude of the suntanned bodies cavorting in the pool.

It was Miracle's fourth trip to Pleasures. She and Heidi had met there a few years ago, vacationing with their husbands. Now that they were both single, they met each January for a week of sun and mischief. "It gets me through the winter," Miracle said. "My mom takes the boys, and I'm like a kid again." She was an X-ray technician from West Texas. Divorced, with two children, she came to Pleasures to recharge her suntan, drink umbrella drinks, and, she admitted, to meet men: "I'm forty, and I live in a small town. There's no one left to date."