Too Darn Hot (13 page)

“Thank you for putting it in perspective.”

“No problem.”

She asked, “How long were you married?”

“Fifteen years. We met at the CIA.”

Lina knew he was referring to the Culinary Institute of America, in Hyde Park, New York.

He continued, “Ruth was my business partner as well as my wife. Our first venture was a little catering business. We must’ve washed a ton of lettuce in our bathtub.”

She chuckled with him over the image his words conjured. “Hope you scrubbed the tub first.”

“But of course. Our specialty was romaine with olive oil and Ajax.” He leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms. “So Joy told you how Ruth died. What else did she tell you?”

She stared out over the endless expanse of the Atlantic, feeling his eyes on her. Her roommate’s words rang in her head.
Eric caught Ruth in bed with an old boyfriend.
She said, “Nothing really.”

He wasn’t fooled. “It’s true, you know.” After an awkward moment he added quietly, “I was devastated. Ruth begged me to forgive her. She said she’d never been unfaithful before, that it just...happened.”

“Did you?” she asked. “Forgive her?”

After a long silence he said, “No. She died three weeks later, three horribly strained weeks for us.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I believed her, that she’d never done anything like that before. But still, I couldn’t get past the betrayal. It hurt too much—it was like this gaping wound. In my mind what she’d done tainted all those good years we’d had, wiped them out. Then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone.”

Lina didn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.”

He’d been focused inward, his expression clouded. Now he looked at her and gradually seemed to come back to the present. He reached over and straightened her windblown hair, an exercise in futility.

“I’ve never talked about it before,” he said.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Not in the same way. I think if Ruth had lived, we could have eventually gotten past it and healed our marriage. That’s what hurts now, the sense of unfinished business.”

The cataclysmic last weeks of his marriage no doubt contributed to Eric’s emotional withdrawal and his self-imposed celibacy.

He said, “Tell me about your ex.”

“Let’s see. Steve’s a professor of sociology at Queens College. Your basic academic.” She smiled crookedly. “Is this where I’m supposed to start whining about how rotten he treated me and how he stole the best years of my life?”

“Was he rotten to you? Did he steal the best years of your life?”

“No and no. I hope the best years of my life are still to come. I guess my basic problem with Steve was that everything was always about him.”

“About him?”

“You know. Only his interests mattered. His needs. Whatever I tried to discuss with him, he always turned it around to himself.”

Divorce had failed to mellow that charming aspect of Steve’s personality.
Come on, Zanny my love, it’s been two long years. I need you. What’s the harm in getting our rocks off?

“I learned early on not to bother trying to talk to him about my career,” she continued. “He just wasn’t interested. All his friends were academics. That was the only kind of work that mattered, the only kind of writing that mattered—dry articles in those stuffy journals. When I realized I was pushing myself to succeed just to prove something to him, I realized I’d unwittingly succumbed to his self-absorbed agenda—my career was no longer about me and what I needed, it was about him. That’s when I decided it was time to end it.”

She leaned on the railing next to Eric. “The thing that clinched it, though—he doesn’t want children. Not ever. I thought he’d change his mind, but he didn’t. Silly me. I don’t think he could deal with competing for attention.”

“Kids sure do need a lot of that.”

She smiled sardonically. “What could be more pathetic than a lonely thirty-something divorcée sitting around on her biological clock, just waiting for someone to come along and wind her up?”

Those little eye crinkles deepened. “This is the digital age. What you need is someone to plug you in.”

“Well, wind up or plug in, I’d always hoped that by the time I was in my mid-thirties I’d have kids as old as these two.” She tipped her head toward Adam and Daniel, strolling down the boat toward them.

“We’re starving,” Daniel called.

Within moments Joy had joined them and was pawing through her cooler. She produced a cardboard pail emblazoned with a smiling cartoon chicken and the words BUCKET O’ WINGS, which she pronounced “Bucket Oh Wings.” She offered some to the boys.

“No, thanks. We’re cool,” Adam said. “We’ve got cold sesame noodles, Thai beef ribbons, prosciutto and melon, and shrimp and avocado salad.”

“And it’s all for me and Adam,” Daniel threatened. “You grups can have Bucket Oh Chum.”

“What are grups?” Eric asked.

“That would be us. Grown-ups,” Lina explained. “Trekkie talk.”

“I might’ve known.”

“Dan and I spent all afternoon making this stuff,” Adam said as he and his brother located plastic forks and paper napkins. “If you’re nice, we’ll share.”

“You guys cooked this food?” Lina was incredulous.

“Like we’d really let Dad pack the cooler,” Daniel scoffed, prying open a plastic container of Chinese egg noodles covered in peanut butter sauce with a sprinkling of sesame seeds. “I never want to see another Fluffernutter as long as I live.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” she said. “Like father like sons.”

“Dig in,” Eric offered.

She stared at the beautifully prepared repast the boys were unwrapping and wondered what had happened to her appetite. When she’d boarded the boat, she was looking forward to picnicking on the high seas.

“No, thanks.” She tried to sound enthusiastic as she added, “Be sure to save me some, though. I’ll have it later.”

For the next half hour her companions ate and drank and chatted animatedly while Lina’s loss of appetite progressed to more concrete sensations she resolutely refused to acknowledge. Her innards clenched and the blood slowly drained from her head as she watched Joy strip a chicken wing with her teeth. Her lips felt like rubber. She swallowed hard.

Please tell me this isn’t happening.

Not now. Not tonight.

Chapter Eleven

“Don’t you want to try the shrimp, Lina?” Eric held the container under her nose.

She stretched her rubber lips into an imitation of a smile and tried to ignore the sweat popping out above them. “I had shrimp for lunch.” She pulled in a deep breath, but it didn’t help. “Excuse me. Joy, take a little stroll with me, will you?”

Mouth full, Joy waved negligently. “As soon as I’m fin—”

Lina yanked her by the arm, sloshing lemonade out of the paper cup in Joy’s hand. “We’ll be right back,” she assured Eric.

When they were out of earshot she stopped and gripped the railing.

“Jeepers, Lina, you don’t look so good.”

“God help you if you say I told you so.”  She knew she had to be turning green. “You had pills. Where are they?”

“Right here in my pocket, but it won’t do you any good at this point. You’re supposed to take it before you—”

“Give it to me! She darted a glance back at Eric, who was repacking empty food containers in his cooler. “I refuse to get sick.”

She snatched the tiny yellow pill Joy produced and made the mistake of popping it into her mouth before securing a drink to wash it down with. That thing was bitter! Her roommate watched her mime frantically for a few interminable seconds before it occurred to her to offer a sip of lemonade. Even after it went down, the lingering flavor chased a shudder through her. “Blech.”

Joy said, “Good luck,” and took off to rejoin her Sagittarian nonsmoking canoe builder. Lina sauntered back toward Eric, her face contorted into what she hoped would pass for a jaunty smile. The boys had returned to their spot near the bow.

Dusk was finally beginning to claim the summer sky. Lina prayed for sudden dark to hide her pallor. The last thing she wanted was for Eric to see her sick. The breeze shifted and she got a good lungful of acrid diesel smoke. She almost groaned as the smell triggered a fresh wave of nausea. She wished she hadn’t had the beer on an empty stomach.

You can do it,
she told herself.
You can hold out till you’re off the boat. Two, three hours tops, and you’ll be back in Freeport.

Exchanging breezy
bon mot
s with Eric while trying to ignore the giant fist squeezing her stomach took every scrap of concentration she had. Surreptitiously she wiped sweat from her face and wondered when the boat would stop. She knew she’d feel better once the boat stopped.

The boat stopped and she felt worse. As soon as the engine quieted, the
Captain Joe II
settled into a subtle rocking motion that urged her stomach to even more impressive acrobatics.

She closed her eyes and chanted a private mantra.

I will not barf, I will not barf, I will not barf....

Eric, clearly oblivious to Lina’s gastric turmoil, baited his hook and hers with chunks of fish and cast his line over the railing. She pretended interest in the disgusting procedure.

I will not barf!

A mate hauling a metal pail and ladle stopped nearby. He unceremoniously dipped the ladle into the mess of fish parts and blood, and let the contents fly past the railing in a graceful arc. The stream of chum made a plopping noise as it landed on the water. She bit the inside of her lip and drew in shallow breaths.

“Yeah, I have a good feeling about tonight,” Eric drawled. His gaze flicked to her neglected fishing rod. “Do you need some help with— Whoa! Here we go!”

His rod flexed as the line snapped taut and sliced the water. Eric’s biceps tightened, pushing up the sleeves of his black T-shirt as he gripped the rod and worked the reel. His features hardened in concentration even as a fierce grin split his face.

Little by little he wound the reel, claiming his prize by degrees. Even in the throes of her malady, Lina appreciated the way his shoulders strained as he pulled up on the rod while drawing in line. This would be the first catch on the boat, and the eyes of all those around them were on Eric.

Her imagination conjured another image: Eric’s powerful body sweating and straining toward a different goal, one that would surely elicit even greater single-minded concentration.

“I’ve got you, you son of a bitch,” he ground out as the line jerked violently.

Lina couldn’t help herself. She peered into the inky water and saw a silvery shape whipping around. A mate had appeared at Eric’s side, holding a pole with a vicious-looking hook on the end. Her eyes grew round. What was that for?

The mate reached over the railing and speared the fish with the gaff as Eric reeled in the line.

“Oh, my God!” she screeched.

Working together, the two men hauled the fish aboard, to general merriment.

That
was a bluefish?
That
was what she was expected to catch? The damn thing must be over two feet long. She’d pictured something about six inches long. Something, well, cute.

The gaff was removed, but the hook remained in its mouth. Lina stood frozen as the silver-blue fish fought ferociously a few inches from her pretty suede shoes, its body flexing, thrashing, slapping the deck in a staccato beat.

The sight of the fish’s blood sent her over the edge. She gulped down bile and prayed she could make it to the head in time. She’d seen a sign in the john that read, “Don’t even think of puking in here, that’s what the ocean is for,” or something to that effect, but Lina knew that sign wasn’t for her. Oh no. She had no intention of disgracing herself in public.

The fish read her mind. Before she’d even begun to turn toward the cabin, the silver head whipped up and two rows of razor-sharp teeth latched on to the hem of her champagne linen slacks.

Lina’s scream must have been heard in Freeport and beyond. The damn thing was biting her pants!

She didn’t think, she reacted. She hopped, flailed, even kicked the tenacious beast in its meaty side.

“Eric! Get this thing off me!”

“Stop moving around, Lina. I’m trying, but you’ve gotta be still.”

Bzzz! Time’s up.

She staggered to the side of the boat, dragging the heavy fish along with her like some ghastly, writhing appendage. She gripped the railing and watched shadowy, silvery shapes glide under the surface as her stomach violently emptied. It was a long way to the water, making her public spectacle all the more impressive.

She heard a sickening thunk much too close and looked down just in time to see the mate clout the fish’s head a second time with some sort of small club. Only then did the thing finally forfeit the fight—and Lina’s pants.

The once pristine linen was torn and smeared with blood and God knew what else. Her suede flats were ruined. Her silk top had come half-untucked, and sweat dripped between her breasts. Her hair had flopped into her eyes.

She didn’t give a damn.

She’d humiliated herself in front of Eric. In front of everybody. Nothing else mattered.

“Here.” Eric pressed a cup of lemonade into her hands. She turned back to the railing and rinsed her mouth with the drink. His strong arm encircled her shoulders. She started to pull away.

“Oh no you don’t.” He dragged her back into his embrace, where she collapsed against him, burying her face in his chest. “You’re trembling.” His voice was gentle and concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt sick?”

Her only response was an unintelligible groan, closer to a whine. He held her tighter and rubbed her back. She sighed as his large palms moved in firm circles. As soothing as the caress was, she soon felt her stomach tighten once more.

“Oh no...” she whimpered.

“Here, let me help you.” He led her back to the railing.

“No. I hate this. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Too late for that, honey. Don’t fight it. You’ll just prolong the inevitable.”