The Men I Didn't Marry (16 page)

“Doesn’t have to be.” He plays with my fingers. Slowed down by his lack of reaction to my frenzy, I sit down on the bed next to him.

“Stay with me,” Kevin says. “Don’t you remember what I told you yesterday? If you get on that plane, you’ll regret it.”

“I will?”

“You’ll always wonder what might have happened. We’ll both always wonder.”

Kevin’s fingers dance across my bare thigh and I close my eyes for a moment.

“What will happen if I stay?” I ask in a soft voice.

For an answer, Kevin gently pulls me close. He holds me tightly, then rolls over so I feel the full weight of his taut body against mine.

Instead of telling him how much I want to stay, I just melt into him as we kiss. This is what I’ve been running both toward and away from since the day I got to the island. Am I going to finally give in and let myself feel again? Take the chances that Emily says I’ve never taken?

“I want to make love to you,” says Kevin, his breath warm against my ear. “Passionate love, but slowly, very slowly.” My heart pounds against his chest and I slide my hands under his shirt and feel the strong muscles along his smooth back.

Take a chance. Go for what I want.

“I’m not sure I remember how to do this anymore,” I say, whispering and pulling him closer.

“Then let me remind you.” He reaches down and pulls off my T-shirt and takes off his own. I feel the thrill of naked skin against skin, and this time, I’m not embarrassed for Kevin to see my body. Or stroke it. Or make love to it. Just like when we were dancing, I blissfully follow his lead.

And follow and follow. And lead. And then follow again.

Since Bill left me, I wondered if I’d ever make love again. I didn’t think I would; I didn’t think I wanted to. After all these years, how could I be with someone new? But as my body merged with Kevin’s— over and over—I felt as if parts of me were being roused from a long sleep.

“How many times can we possibly make love?” I ask Kevin, late that afternoon when we’re nestled in a hidden cove on the beach.

“Mmm, maybe just once more,” Kevin says, coming closer.

“Uck, you’re sandy.” I giggle and push him away.

“One day and you’re already tired of me?” he asks.

“Never,” I say, kissing him.

Kevin stretches out, his chin propped in his cupped hand, and I run my hands appreciatively—yet again—over his gorgeous body.

“So what do you think?” he asks.

I turn onto my back and look up at the sky. “I think you’re an amazing lover.”

“How big is your database?”

“Small. But I read a lot.” I don’t mention that the books tend to be law texts, not Harlequin romances.

“And what else do you think?”

“I think Arthur’s going to wonder if I was abducted by pirates.”

Kevin looks at me quizzically. “Arthur? So you do have a boyfriend back home.”

I laugh. “No. Arthur’s my boss. He’s expecting me in the office tomorrow.”

“That’s easy, then. Call him and tell him you’ll be a day late.” Kevin reaches over and strokes my breast. “Better idea. Tell him you’ll be a week late. You can stay with me for as long as you want, you know.”

“I don’t have any clothes here. My suitcase is still in the rental car I left at the airport,” I say, as if the only thing keeping me from moving in with Kevin is an extra pair of Levi’s.

“Forget clothes. I don’t want you ever to wear clothes again,” says Kevin. He reaches over and caresses the curve of my waist.

We slowly head back to his house, arms wrapped around each other. I realize Kevin’s right. There’s no way I want to go back to New York right now. “I’m going to call Arthur,” I tell Kevin once we’re inside. It’s not like me to run out on work, but it’s just for a few days. Plus, I pass the Susie-Carla litmus test of why you shouldn’t rush back to your real life. I feel happy.

And I feel even happier two days later when Kevin and I agree that I should at least stay on the island until the supply boat arrives with his order from
Amazon.com
for a new espresso machine and a copy of
The
Complete Illustrated Kama Sutra
.

“I don’t want you getting bored,” he says, explaining his purchases.

“One more cup of bad coffee and I’m out of here,” I laugh. But he could have saved his money on the book. Kevin’s repertoire doesn’t need any help.

“How many positions are there in the Kama Sutra?” I ask, curious.

“Sixty-four.”

“It will take serious work to get through it all.”

“We’ll take as long as we have to.”

One thing I know is it’s going to take long enough that I have to call Arthur again. When he answers, I explain that I’m delayed and am taking some more of my vacation time.

“What’s going on, Hallie?” Arthur snaps. “It’s not like you to be this irresponsible.”

“I know,” I blurt out cheerfully. But I quickly recover, realizing that Arthur wasn’t tossing me a compliment. I’d expected my usually accommodating boss to be a little more supportive, but since he’s not, I quickly change my tone.

“I can do some work from here,” I say in what I hope is my best professional voice. “With phones, Internet, e-mail you’ll never miss me.”

“I don’t really like the idea,” says Arthur, “The Tyler case is coming to trial soon. I need your full attention.”

And what makes him think that he doesn’t have it? Can he tell from my tone that I’m holding the phone with one hand and slathering on sunscreen with the other?

“I’ll get you anything I can for the Tyler case,” I say, the tube of sunscreen slipping from my fingers. I watch it bounce across the floor. Exactly what rabbit am I going to pull out of the hat to save the Tyler case? My luck it’ll be Jessica Rabbit, the sexed up ’toon. And it’ll turn out she works for Alladin Films and is screwing Mr. Tyler, too.

“The best thing you can get me is Mr. Tyler,” says Arthur gruffly. “I’ve been trying to find him for three days, and he hasn’t answered any of my messages.”

“I could always look around here,” I joke.

“Why don’t you do that if you’re not too busy,” says Arthur snidely, as he hangs up.

To keep Arthur happy, I decide to do a little work after all. I check behind the pillows, under the bed, and in the bathroom for Mr. Tyler. Nope, he’s not here. Well, this should count for at least one billable hour. Next, I’ll go to the beach to look for him. But first I make a quick call to check in with Bellini again. Someone in New York should know where I am.

“What do you mean you’re still on Virgin Gorda?” she asks when I reach her at her office at Bendel’s.

“You should see how exquisite the beaches are,” I say languorously.

“Right,” she sighs. “Listen, I don’t have time for another travelogue right now. Could you just give me the news? I have a rep waiting to sell me sequined handbags and another who insists next season will be all about appliqué. Sorry, but I’m under so much pressure.”

I step onto the deck and watch a pretty forty-foot catamaran sail by. The three people lounging on board wave and I leisurely wave back. Yes, so much pressure. Bellini’s panicked because Bendel’s bottom line depends on her choice of sequins or appliqués. Arthur’s frantic that he might lose a case—and has misplaced a client. For me, just a little relaxing in the warm sunshine and it all seems so far away.

But if Bellini needs me to cut to the chase, I will. “The news is that Kevin turns out to be a scuba-diving photographer
extraordinaire
. And when it comes to sex, he’s even more
extraordinaire
.”

“Sounds good,” she says.

I smugly lean against the railing and wave at another boat. “I may never come home.”

“Of course you will. You’re just having a fling.”

I think about it for a second. “No, not a fling. What if this is serious? Is there any reason I couldn’t stay here?”

“You just met the guy. You have two kids. And you hate piña coladas. How are those for reasons?”

Since I’ve been going through the same arguments in my head for the last few days, I’m ready to rebut.

“My kids are at college. Piña coladas are passé. And I’ve known Kevin for twenty-five years. For heaven’s sake, I even know his mother.” That stops me. Jeannette Talbert definitely does not belong in the plus column.

“Oh, stop being silly,” says Bellini. “He’s a scuba diver and he lives on an island. He’s not appropriate for you.”

“Not appropriate?” I start to laugh. Bellini judging me for dating someone inappropriate is like Rush Limbaugh attacking drug addicts. Or Bill O’Reilly railing against sexual deviance. Or the Catholic church sermonizing about . . . well, about anything these days.

“Hallie, I’m the one with the low standards,” Bellini bursts out, exasperated. “We all rely on you to be the paragon of virtue. The pillar of the community. The epitome of appropriateness.”

“Well, maybe I’m tired of being a paragon and a pillar. Not to mention an epitome.”

“It’s who you are. It’s how you’re built.”

“You make me sound like an ancient Greek amphitheatre. I’ve had enough of that. I want to be”—I pause. What do I want to be?—“the Guggenheim Bilbao. You know, that crazy museum in Spain with the curvy roofs. New and modern and something everyone talks about.”

“Keep this up and everyone will be talking about you, that’s for sure.”

“I can’t believe you’re so disapproving. You’re the one person I thought would tell me to go for it.”

“I’m just being rational,” says Bellini.

“It doesn’t become you.”

Bellini sighs. “Okay, look. Enjoy the sex. You’re using condoms, right? And backup birth control? You know to reapply the spermicide every time you make love. And just to be safe, use a gob more than they say on the directions.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Bellini, if you want me to enjoy the sex, shut up. I know what to do so cut the public service announcement. What happened to spontaneity?”

“Don’t you dare think about spontaneity! I’m serious about reapplying every time, even if you’re doing it twice in an hour.” She pauses. Then lowering her voice she asks, “By the way, does he do it twice in an hour?”

“Three times,” I say.

“Now I know you’re lying.” She laughs. “But while we’re on the subject, what have you told your kids?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying to them?”

“I would never lie to my children,” I say righteously. “I talk to them all the time. They call my cell phone. They just never think to ask where I am.”

“Well, it sounds like you have things under control,” says Bellini dubiously. “I’ll call you soon. But meanwhile, I’ve got to get the Bendel’s pocketbook crisis under control.”

“So what’d you decide about next season? Sequins or appliqué?”

“Neither,” says Bellini. “You’re not the only one who can head in a whole new direction. Hold on.” I hear her call out to her assistant to get rid of both of the sales reps who are waiting in the outer office.

“Time to shake things up around here,” she announces. Then in one short sentence, Bellini makes her mark on fashion accessory history.

“Get me those evening bags in plastic.”

Plastic bags? Good idea. But maybe I’ll just get mine at A&P.

Chapter TWELVE

IT AMAZES ME how easily I’ve slipped into island life—and can now slip into a sarong. Being outside every day running on the beach, swimming in the ocean, and having sex everywhere, I’m in my best shape ever. I’ve heard that the average woman gains two pounds every year she’s married. Maybe when you’re separated, you lose two pounds a year. If I stay single another twenty years, I could end up anorexic.

But at the moment, I have the best of everything. I’m feeling trim and healthy—and I have Kevin. Talk about slipping into things. With stunning ease, I’ve abandoned my world and moved into his. My morning wake-up call is suddenly the lapping waves, not a blaring alarm clock. Instead of stuffing an oatmeal breakfast bar into my mouth as I run for the commuter train, I sit at leisure with Kevin on his deck, watching the seagulls, sipping freshly brewed coffee (that new espresso machine was a good idea), and nibbling ripe fruit. The Kama Sutra manual was a good idea, too—but we don’t usually get to that until lunch.

I like being at Kevin’s side, even though that means I’m spending a lot of time underwater. My diving skills have improved and I’m happy to help out occasionally on his jobs. I rarely even visited Bill’s sleek office when we were married, but I like going to work with Kevin. Maybe it’s because his workplace is the ocean, and being with him seems compellingly exotic.

Kevin’s movie job with Angelina isn’t starting for another month, and in the meantime he’s back to taking photos of scuba diving tourists. But today’s assignment, shooting a marriage ceremony, is unusual, at least for me. Having been to a lot of weddings, I’ve seen barefoot brides romping through fields in Vermont and grooms walking stiffly down the aisle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in morning coats and top hats. But I’ve never seen a couple exchange vows a hundred feet under the sea with air tanks strapped to their backs. Everybody gets a little short of breath before they say, “I do,” but this will be the first bride and groom I know who actually require oxygen.

“What if they drop the ring underwater?” I ask Kevin, as we’re bounding by speedboat out to neighboring Guana Island, where the happy couple is getting married.

“If the ring drops, we call the Coast Guard,” Kevin says.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s teasing. “
Coast Guard: Ring
Rescue Team
,” I parry. “I think it’s on CBS on Sunday nights.”

Kevin laughs, and as we pull up closer to Guana, a flock of fluffy white birds lazily hunting food scatter, their noisy calls quickly replacing the whir of our motor. From the edge of the dock, a tall broad-chested man waves, then comes over and extends a helping hand as we get off.

“Hey, Henry, good to see you,” says Kevin, shaking the man’s hand.

“You, too. Welcome,” says Henry. He looks at me appreciatively, then asks Kevin, “Is this a new friend of yours?”

“Actually an old friend. Meet Hallie.” Kevin puts his hands possessively on my shoulders. “Will you take care of my girl while I go get set up for the wedding shoot?”

“I’m always happy to take care of your girls,” Henry jokes.

Kevin laughs then grabs his photography equipment, and heads off.

“Pretty place,” I say to Henry as he helps me tie up the boat and we wander along the shore. “Worked here long?”

“I suppose you could say that,” he admits with a sweet grin.

A flock of flamingos parade past us, graceful long-legged, long-necked beauties that look like they should have a ballet written about them. The divas of
Swan Lake
have ruled for too long.

“How beautiful,” I say, watching them.

Henry looks after them proudly. “Guana’s a wildlife sanctuary. A few years ago, Caribbean flamingos were endangered, so we repopulated. We have a lot of animals you won’t find elsewhere.”

As if to prove it, a large insect starts to crawl up my leg, and I give a little squeal and flick it off.

Henry bends over and cups the beleaguered bug in his hand. “Hundreds of species of bugs live here, including three types of beetle.” He stares briefly at the insect, then puts it down gently on a leaf. “Did you know there are more beetles in the world than any other species? There’s an old story about a biologist who was asked what nature has taught him about God, and he replied, ‘He has an inordinate fondness for beetles.’ ”

I laugh and flex my leg. “You seem to know a lot about this place,” I say.

“I should,” Henry says, adjusting his broad-brimmed hat. “I own it.”

“You
own
it?” I ask surprised. “Does that make you the king? The dictator? What do I call you?”

“Henry,” he says simply.

“I might go for King Henry,” I say, curtseying.

Henry chuckles. “Actually, I own two islands. I bought Guana back in the seventies.”

“Smart investment. What are you thinking of buying next?” I ask him.

“A new fishing rod.”

“Nice to have goals,” I say.

Henry smiles and sits down again on the dock. “So how about you, Hallie? What’s your story?”

“Everything about my story seems to be changing,” I tell him. “Right now being with Kevin seems to be the main theme.”

Henry picks up a stone and tosses it neatly across the water. Three skips. Not bad. “Kevin’s a fun guy. A very free spirit,” he says. “I admire that in a man. Although after a while, some women get tired of it.”

I pause and run some sand through my fingers. “Is that a warning, King Henry?”

“Just an observation,” he says.

We look at each other, and then Henry stands up. “You should probably be getting over to the wedding.” He points down a path and offers directions to Muskmelon Bay. Then he gives me a small hug and kisses me on each cheek. “Have fun. Enjoy yourself with Kevin. That’s a lot more important than owning islands.”

I hug him back. “You’re the nicest king I’ve ever met,” I say.

I give Henry a little wave then walk toward the site of the nuptials. An unusual lizard skitters across my path, and instead of jumping out of its way, I stop to admire it. After all, it’s one of God’s—or at least Henry’s—creatures.

When I get to the edge of the bay, I peer into the clear blue water, looking for bubbles and signs of Kevin. My boyfriend is out there somewhere. My boyfriend. That’s a nice thing to have again, despite Henry’s word of caution. Guana seems to be a good place for cultivating things. Maybe a boyfriend becomes . . .

“Aquaman!” I call out as his head bobs out of the ocean.

Kevin waves to me and swims to shore. He hauls himself out of the water. “Hey, Aquababy,” he says, pulling off his mask and dripping water all over me.

“Stop it. You’re getting me wet.”

He laughs and spreads his arms to the vast ocean. “That’s what we do at underwater weddings,” he says.

I speedily suit up and check my equipment, thinking how just a few weeks ago I needed help from my children, Nick, and the speedboat captain just to get into the water—and once there I flipped my flippers like burgers at a barbecue. But now being in the ocean is no big deal. Second nature. And I’m getting a second chance at more than just scuba diving.

Holding hands, Kevin and I dive down to the ceremony site. Since it’s a wedding, I think I should fuss, but there’s not a lot to do with the natural habitat. The living coral reef, glittering like a thousand crystals, is more beautiful than any marble altar, and the purple sea fans wafting in the current are more stunning than fifty thousand roses.

A few minutes later, I see the bride and groom slowly dropping down from the surface to join us at eighty feet. They glide toward us in matching sleek black wet suits, and given the spandex, the masks, the hoses, and the tanks, it’s a little tricky to make out who’s the he and who’s the she. Could be the perfect solution for gay marriage. Don’t ask, and there’s no way to tell.

Accompanying the couple is Susie, Kevin’s sometime assistant, who will also be presiding over the nuptials. She might have abandoned her banking career when she came to the islands but she definitely kept her business sense. To supplement her services as a master scuba diver, Susie became certified as a justice of the peace and a bartender. Clever career move. Who doesn’t need a drink after a wedding?

When the couple approaches, the bride (or at least the smaller of the two) grabs some seaweed to hold in front of her as a bouquet. Kevin removes his mouthpiece and blows out musical bubbles.

“
Dum dum da-dum
,” he exhales, to the beat of “Here Comes the Bride.” He quickly puts the tube back in his mouth to breathe again. Good thing the bride’s not swimming down the aisle to Wagner or Kevin would pass out before the last note. Musical accompaniment finished, Susie gathers us close, and at last, the wedding is in full swing. A colorful school of parrot fish gathers to witness the holy union and a large loggerhead turtle appears to stand up for the groom.

With nobody to give the bride away and none of the fish objecting, the proceedings go rather quickly. Kevin starts snapping pictures as Susie performs the ceremony by pointing to the groom, pointing to the bride, and making a question mark with her finger. The groom forms the okay sign by making a circle of his thumb and forefinger, the underwater version of “I do.” Susie reverses the process, and his beloved nods, pledging her troth. I’m sure Susie would never slip anything by her, but how’s an underwater bride to know if she’s agreed just to love and cherish—or also to obey?

The happy couple mash their masks together, trying to kiss, and as an ultimate sign of oneness, they both take a swig of air from the same tank. In the excitement of the moment, I give the thumbs-up sign, forgetting that for scuba divers, that means it’s time to go back to the surface. Everybody dutifully starts to ascend. Oh, well, the only thing the bride didn’t get to do was throw her bouquet and I didn’t want a face full of seaweed, anyway.

Kevin and I are the first out of the water, and we pull off our equipment quickly. The newlyweds surface and I hold out a hand to help them ashore.

Through his mask, the groom looks at me and is so startled, he almost falls back into the water. As I hoist him to land, he quickly scuttles behind his bride.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she asks, taking off her goggles. She pulls out the elastic band holding her hair in a ponytail and swings her thick red curls. The groom, meanwhile, is whispering in her ear and urgently tugging at her wet suit.

And suddenly I realize that I know both of them. I’ve met the groom, nervous in my office, and seen the bride naked in a photograph.

“Mr. Tyler?” I ask incredulously. “Is that you?”

Instead of answering, he hurriedly grabs the bride—who I can now identify as Melina Marks—and spirits her into a speedboat moored at the beach. He heaves the boat into the water and yanks the cord to start the motor.

I start to run after them, but they shove off, sending a fine wave of salt water splashing back in my face. Susie joins me at the edge of the water.

“I hope I didn’t do anything wrong at the ceremony,” she says, watching the couple zoom away.

“You were perfect,” I promise her. We continue to stare out to sea until the boat is barely a speck in the distance.

Susie sighs. “I have to fill out the license, and I don’t even know their names. Who was that masked man?”

All those years watching reruns of
The Lone Ranger
, and I never thought I’d actually get to answer that question.

“His name’s Charles Tyler. He’s a client of mine,” I say. “When my boss told me to find him, I figured I should look under every rock, but it never occurred to me to look under an air tank.”

“Why was he so panicked to see you?”

I shake my head. “Probably because it’s not too prudent in the middle of a sex discrimination trial to marry the woman you’re accused of sleeping with.”

I wander around Guana for a while, waiting for the speedboat to reappear, but it never does.

“You think we should go looking for them?” I ask Kevin.

“We can try. But they could be anywhere by now—or at least anywhere you can get to on a tank of propane.”

With no real alternative, I leave a voice message on Mr. Tyler’s cell phone, congratulating him on his wedding—because what else can I say? You stupid idiot, you’re going to lose your career and your new wife is going to lose her job. I beg Mr. Tyler to call me, even though he’s now officially on his honeymoon.

We leave Guana, and I’m agitated all the way home. As our small boat crashes through the rising waves, the pounding of my butt against the seat is nothing compared to the pounding in my head, courtesy of Mr. Tyler. When we go out to have drinks with Susie and Dave at an outdoor bar that night, it’s all I can talk about.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so worked up,” says Kevin for about the tenth time.

“Worked up? I’m not worked up,” I say, getting more worked up at the thought of having to defend my worked up-edness.

“No, Kev’s right. You’re worked up,” says Dave, who tosses a peanut in the air and catches it in his mouth. “What’s the big deal?”

“My client’s acting very strangely. I know something’s up with him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.” I take a gulp of my drink. “It’s driving me nuts not to have a handle on this.”

“Who cares? End of the day, you have a beer and leave your work behind,” says Dave.

“My work
interests
me,” I say, remembering that it once did. “I don’t like to leave it behind. Sometimes it stays with me all night.”

“My work sometimes stays with me all night, too,” says Dave with a leer. “Always some sexy tourist who wants the scuba master to show her more than the reef. So she comes home with me and I introduce her to the big eel.”

“Oh, Dave, you’re gross,” says Susie.

“The big eel?” asks Kevin bemusedly. “Is that what you call it? I thought the last woman who slept with you referred to it as the little squid.”

I sit back in my chair and shake my head. A few short months— and a lifetime—ago, I was with Bill at dinner parties in Chaddick, sipping Château Margaux and discussing the effects of Amazonian deforestation on environmental change. Now my environment really has changed. I’m swilling whatever’s on tap and discussing whether a man I don’t even like has a little squid or a big eel.