Distracted (9 page)

As she crawled beneath the soft comforter, the boat
rocking gently, Erin hugged her pillow to her chest. In the dark,
she found it easy to let her mind wander. To imagine Spence
sleeping quietly in his berth on the far side of the boat. She
allowed herself to fantasize about how it would feel to rest her
head against him. She hiked her pillow up until it felt like a warm
shoulder, closed her eyes and smiled.

Chapter Eight

“I’m thinking a couple days in Key West might be fun.
Ever been there?”

“No. My parents live in Sarasota, though.”

“Would you like to go there? See them?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We can go to the Tortugas first. We’ll do a little
snorkeling and tour Fort Jefferson. It’s an old Civil War fort.
Very cool. Then take a side trip to the Gulf Coast.”

“Isn’t that fort way past Key West?”

“Nah, it’s not too far. This cat is fast and I’m in
no hurry. The weather’s great and there aren’t any storms on the
radar.”

She shivered. “That’s good.”

“Don’t let a little weather worry you. This boat is
blue-water certified.”

“What does that mean?”

Spence squinted at the compass, then adjusted the
autopilot. “It means I can sail her anywhere I want. How about the
South Pacific?”

“You jest,” Erin said. “No; I think Key West is
tropical enough for me.”

“Want me to add Sarasota as a waypoint? Want me to
meet the parents?”

“Thank you, no. I’m working, remember? We’re both
working. I’ll see my parents at Christmas.”

* * *

Later that evening, Erin e-mailed two chapters and
essays on a dozen paintings to Patricia’s office. She also uploaded
digital copies of Spence’s paintings along with detailed
captions.

She was excited that work on the book was
progressing, albeit slowly, and that Spence liked her outline. She
resorted to interviewing him and then transcribing tapes and notes
into a first-person format. The thoughts and feelings were his and
they were real; she was simply the conduit for getting those
thoughts on paper.

“You’re really good at this, aren’t you?”

Erin glowed at the compliment. “I enjoy working with
writers. I love being an editor.”

“Why don’t you write your own book?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Why not? I mean, why not write your own book? Why do
you want to work with other people when you could just do what you
want?”

She bit her lip and smiled patronizingly. “Spence,
this is what I want to do. I’m very happy working with talented
people and helping them create a new piece of art. That’s what a
book is, of course. As an artist, your goal is to produce a
painting, not a book. But with my help, you can build a bridge
between painting and writing.”

She could tell he still didn’t understand.

“Alright, think of me as the conductor of a symphonic
orchestra. I’m not playing the instruments; I’m directing those who
can. With my guidance, we create a work of art. Sure, I know how to
write, just like the conductor knows how to read music and play
instruments. But with his help, the musicians create the
magic.”

Spence shrugged, obviously not agreeing. “If you say
so. Seems like you should be getting the credit, though.”

“Believe me; I am paid well to stay in the
background. I don’t require my name on the cover. I’m not an ego
maniac. I get satisfaction from doing my job well. From knowing
that my employer is satisfied and that I have helped a new author
produce a quality book.”

“I’m not an ego maniac,” he retorted.

“I didn’t say you were. Sheesh.”

“Okay, you’re not an ego maniac. You’re a control
freak.”

“I am not!” She tried to shove him out of the settee,
using her hands and then her feet for leverage. Spence grabbed her
ankles and tickled her toes.

“So how much do you make on a book like this?”

“None of your business, smarty pants.”

“Seriously,” he drawled.

“Well, not a half million, that’s for sure. How much
do you make on a single painting?”

Spence smiled and rubbed his hands gleefully.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Actually, I already know.”

“Well why’d ya ask?”

“To see if you’d tell me the truth.”

“I see. You’re testing me. I wondered when you’d
start.”

She glared at him as she shut her laptop. “Oh, get
real. I couldn’t care less about testing you. Get out of my
way.”

She waited for him to move and when he didn’t she
scooted to the opposite edge of the settee.

* * *

By late afternoon, she could see the Tortuga beach
and the red brick structure of Fort Jefferson shimmering on the
horizon.

“Are there many people on the island?”

“No. The only people who live here are park rangers
and their families. It’s nice to visit, but it’s not very
hospitable. There’s no fresh water -- just coral and sand. That’s
why Spanish sailors called it the ‘Dry Tortugas.’ Even pirates
avoided this place, except when they needed to maroon a kidnapped
damsel.”

Erin shaded her eyes and watched as the islands drew
closer. She read the tattered brochure Spence dug out of the
starboard locker. She learned that ‘Tortuga’ is Spanish for turtle
and the old brick fort had been built in the 1800s but never saw
any real military action. Its biggest claim to fame came after the
Civil War, when it served as a prison. Decades of neglect and the
occasional hurricane left parts of the fort crumbling, but the
National Park Service was doing its best to stay ahead of the
elements. Now, the main island and six lesser keys nearby serve as
a remote outpost for small groups of tourists who make the
seventy-mile, open-water trip from Key West. Other visitors
included the occasional bird-watcher, scientists studying the
turtle population, and sailors like Spence.

“Are we going to be here long?”

“Nah. We’ll do a little snorkeling and stay tonight.
Then tomorrow morning we’ll head on to Key West, do a little Duval
crawlin’, get some Cuban grub.”

“What’s ‘Duval crawling’?”

“You’ll see,” he said, smirking. “Meanwhile, let’s
drop anchor at that small mangrove island just north of Tortuga. We
can take the dinghy to the fort.”

“Why don’t we just head for the piers?” Erin asked,
nodding towards a series of dark wooden poles near the shore.

“We’re going to stay the night and I don’t want
company. Sometimes other cruisers come here and they like to party
too much or too loud.”

“Oh,” she said, noticing a small sailboat and a sport
fishing boat tied to the piers. In the distance, a commercial ferry
was leaving Tortuga and Erin could see the stern was crowded with
tourists.

Within minutes they secured the anchor and lowered
the inflatable dinghy. Spence helped Erin into the little boat and
tossed her a bag of gear and a picnic basket.

“What’s this?”

“We’ll do a little snorkeling before we go to Fort
Jefferson. See some wildlife that the tourists won’t see.”

He climbed in and started the motor. After days of
quiet sailing and the occasional muffled diesel, the roar of the
powerful gasoline motor startled her. Spence, sitting at the stern
and guiding the tiller, grinned. He pushed the little speedboat and
made great, loping circles until Erin laughed, clinging to the
inflated sides.

At the beach, Spence tied the Zodiac to the exposed
roots of a mangrove. He dumped the contents of the bag into the
boat, then handed Erin a mask, snorkel and set of fins. He showed
her how to adjust the mask and blow through the snorkel. Then, he
helped her with her fins. She waddled to the surf and turned around
to wait for him.

“Just remember, don’t touch,” he said as he bent over
to rinse his mask in the water. Oh, how she wanted to touch.
“Especially the corals. Touching is bad for them, and bad for you
if you touch the kind that burns your skin.”

They swam a few yards out and Spence pointed to a
dark patch of water, signifying a coral head. Erin inserted her
snorkel and dove under the water. At only ten feet deep, it was
easy to see the sandy ocean floor.

She marveled at the silence, broken by the splash of
her flippers and her breath through the snorkel. She hovered near a
patch of coral, watching as yellow and blue and purple tropical
fish darted through the shallow water. She floated toward Spence,
her green eyes dancing as she surveyed the underwater paradise.

A large manta ray swam slowly past them, then doubled
back. Erin grabbed Spence’s arm, pointing frantically before she
broke through the surface, sputtering. Spence laughed, then groaned
as she tried to climb up his body and away from the ray.

Her arms were around his neck, her flippers poking
him in his stomach.

“What is that? Is it dangerous? Some kind of sting
ray?”

“It’s a ray but don’t worry. It won’t harm you,” he
said, smiling. “They’re very gentle.”

Spence wrapped her legs around his hips, moving her
threatening flippers away from his groin. He slid one hand around
her waist, the other cupped her bottom.

Erin wasn’t convinced. She put her chin on his
shoulder and stared behind him at the open water. It took him
several minutes of gently stroking her back and talking about the
sea life before she let him go. She wasn’t sure if she should be
embarrassed; Spence acted as if nothing had happened.

For another hour, they explored beds of coral and the
colorful fish that lived there. She picked up a few sand dollars,
stuffing them in the side of her bathing suit. She slowly came to
accept the surroundings, gaining a little of the confidence Spence
apparently had plenty of.

Soon, they returned to the secluded beach. Spence
pulled a colorful blanket from the boat and spread it on the sand,
anchoring one corner with the small cooler. Then he sat down and
pulled two bottles of water and some fruit out of the cooler. In
just a few days of sailing and eating well, he had dropped some
weight. Erin poked him in the stomach.

“How do you do that?”

“Pardon me?”

“How do you lose weight so quickly and where were
those abs last week?”

“Ah, you want to know my secret? Each morning I do
crunches and I have a set of dumbbells in my cabin. Fifteen minutes
of strength training and I’m good to go.” He flexed a bicep and
smiled. “Go ahead. I know you want to touch it.”

Her mind swam. The sun, the water, the man and this
paradise a million miles from anywhere made her feel woozy. She
ignored the warning bells. At the moment, danger was far from her
thoughts.

Erin gently squeezed his upper arm and sighed. “Oh,
Popeye.” Then she took a bite of a peach. Juice dripped down her
chin and onto her chest. The smell of ripe fruit blended with salt
air. She needed a napkin but was out of luck. She lifted her hand
to wipe off her chin but Spence caught it. He leaned forward and
sucked at her chin. Then he licked the juice off of her chest. Erin
couldn’t breathe. He pushed a curl from her forehead and whispered,
“You taste as good as you look.”

Erin swooned.

In one easy movement, she was on her back and Spence
was leaning over her. The forgotten peach rolled from her hand. He
continued to brush her hair from her face and then traced her
profile with his finger. He stopped at her lips and gently caressed
them. Erin couldn’t tear her eyes from his. Nervously, she opened
her mouth and wet her lips. Kiss me. Oh, kiss me, she thought.

He did and he tasted like salt and sugar. Erin closed
her eyes and kissed him back. Her arms snaked around his neck and
she pressed closer, wanting to feel his chest against hers. Spence
reached behind her neck and untied her top. He tugged it down and
then held her close, crushing her breasts against him. Erin gasped
at the sensation.

Once again Spence captured her mouth and his tongue
danced with hers. They kissed for several minutes before Spence
pulled away.

“I want to make love to you.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“You want me, too.”

She didn’t answer. Spence kissed her chin then her
ear.

“Tell me you want me,” he commanded.

Still, Erin said nothing. She turned her head
away.

“Tell me,” he said.

She dropped her arms. “I don’t think we should do
this.”

Smiling at her, he pulled her bikini straps up and
tied them behind her neck. He helped her to her feet and wiped sand
off of her back. Resting his forearms on her shoulders, he placed
his forehead against hers. Looking into her troubled green eyes he
said, “Soon.”

She blinked.

He kissed her softly and then ran for the surf. He
dove in and caught a wave.

“C’mon. You know how to body surf?”

Chapter Nine

After rousing Erin in pre-dawn light, Spence weighed
anchor and sailed close-hauled to Key West. He radioed ahead for a
slip in the historic marina and by late afternoon they closed the
hatches and locked the saloon door for a trip to town.

Ashore, they ate at a small Cuban restaurant, washing
down the spicy food with bottles of icy beer. Erin kept the
conversation light and impersonal.

“So, you’ve lived in North Carolina all your
life?”

Spence leaned back in the bamboo chair, his eyes
resting on the harbor. Sailboats were milling about, ferrying
tourists on the daily sunset cruises.

“Mostly. I’ve been a few other places but North
Carolina’s home.”

Erin nodded. “Will you live there from now on?”

Spence took the fork out of her hand and turned it
over, tracing her palm with one large finger. “That’s the
plan.”

She closed her hand, making a fist. Spence
laughed.