Find Her, Keep Her (21 page)

“I know,” I say apologetically. “I should’ve thought better.”

“Oh no,” he quickly says. “Don’t apologize. The pleasure was all mine.” He’s grinning.
 

I chuckle and drop my face bashfully.

“Why aren’t you two eating?” Thelma asks as she walks out onto the terrace.

“We’re waiting for you,” he and I say at the same time. We both notice that.

“Well, here I am. Now eat,” Thelma says. This morning, she’s wearing a white linen dress with a navy blue cardigan.
 

“I like your dress, Thelma,” I comment as I use tongs to retrieve two fluffy pancakes and a piece of spinach quiche.

“You’re not so shabby yourself.” She winks at me as she sits.
 

Right away she and Pete start talking about family matters. His father, her brother, is in the hospital. He has stage-three lung cancer.

She shakes her head. “I always warned him. I said, ‘Peter, those cigarettes are going to be your demise.’”

“I know, Aunt Thelma,” Pete says as if he’s heard that a million times.

“Did you know he was a lobbyist for big tobacco?” she says, focusing on me.

I shake my head while chewing. “Uh-um.”
 

“Both Petes are Republicans.”

“Oh, come on, Thelma!” Pete groans like he’s about to hear something else he’s heard a million times before.
 

“My brother, I can see, but you, Pete, you’re a stupid ass.”

I do something that’s between gasping, laughing, and choking.

Pete turns to me. As if he has to explain himself, he says, “I’m a Rockefeller Republican.”
 

“Just like Rockefeller, they’re all dead. You’re going to have to come to the other side or adopt a whole new philosophy,” Thelma says. “What are you, Daisy?”
 

“What do you mean?” I say after swallowing.
 

“What’s your political affiliation? We’re not coy at my table. You can speak without any backlash.”

“Oh,” I say and think really hard about the question. “I guess I’m nothing.”

“Nothing!” she nearly shouts. “Whom did you vote for in the last election?”

My eyes bounce between her face and Pete’s. They look as though they’re waiting on the edge of their seats for an answer. Believe me, I know how people get about politics and religion. I’ve certainly found myself a witness to such debates but never a participant.
 

“I didn’t,” I’m almost afraid to admit.

Thelma studies me. “Why not?”
 

I shrug dismissively. “Because I don’t buy it.”

“What don’t you buy?”

“I don’t know—politics.”

“Do you agree with Social Security?” she asks, and suddenly I feel like I’m being grilled.

I shrug again. “Yeah, I guess so.”
 

“Medicare?”

“I guess–yes.”

“What about funding schools?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“What about a laissez-faire marketplace?” Pete asks before Thelma could throw a curve ball at me.

“Um,” I hum, pondering while turning up my nose. “At what cost?”
 

“Ah-ha!” Thelma exclaims as she snaps. “You’re a Democrat.”

“Okay, well it must be politicians I don’t buy into then,” I say.

“Oh darling.” Thelma pets the back of my hand. “You’re going to be a lovely addition to the table tonight.”

Pete chuckles and shakes his head. Suddenly, I’m worried. As much as I try, I can’t believe the cream rises to the top when it comes to politicians.
 

As we eat, Thelma’s questions never stop. Where am I from? Where did I go to school, meaning college? What are my parents like? Have I ever been married? Am I in love with whomever I’m hiding from? That’s when I decide it’s the perfect time to change the subject.

I shrug at her last question, dismissing it altogether, and say, “You used to be an artist. That’s remarkable. I would love to see your work. I love art. I actually think I’m a connoisseur of great art.”

“She used to run in Picasso’s circle,” Pete adds.

I throw him a thankful glance, and he replies with a smile. From that moment on, I learn that she did more than “run” in his circle. Some of her work is featured in Impressionist’s collections in museums around the country.

“I feel an article coming on,” I say, touching both my temples as if I’ve been struck by divine inspiration. “I know there must be dozens of artists like you, Thelma! I could feature you and a few other American artists who have hobnobbed in the inner circles and track down your work in museums around the country. Heck, around the world!”

My eyes dance excitedly. I’m ready to forget about Peru and pitch this new travel piece to
Life Art
magazine.
 

“That would be lovely,” Thelma says quietly–so quietly it kills my buzz.
 

“What?” I ask.

“I haven’t painted since my husband died.”

“Oh,” I sigh. I should have remembered that. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no,” she cuts me off. “I love the idea. If you want to write it, then you have my support.”

I haven’t grinned this big since the last time Belmont and I made love. “I want to write it. I’m going to write it.”

She squeezes my hand again. Thelma, Pete, and I smile at each other. For the next hour she gives me five names of other artists to feature, and she details living the life of an artist in Greenwich Village up until the late 1960s.
 

Pete’s cell phone rang twice during our meal. Once, the person on the other end must’ve asked who’s laughing because he answered, “Thelma’s guest.” They must’ve asked what did I, the houseguest, find so funny because Pete said, “Nothing. We’re discussing the salaciousness of art.” Then he stepped away from the table to find some privacy.
 

A little after ten thirty a.m., Thelma announces she has to leave because her quilting club meets at the top of the hour.
 

“What are you doing today?” she asks me as Pete and I help her clear the table.
 

“The ocean’s calm. I’m going for a swim.”

“Oh, I’ll join you,” Pete announces, boldly inviting himself.

I hide the fact that hearing that makes me shudder. I mean, he saw my breasts–both of them.

***

Pete’s cell phone rings again as we walk down the wooden steps in the cliff on our way to the beach. After he answers it, he shouts, “Now? I can’t go now. I’m not going to go now.”

“Go ahead,” I whisper, waving. “I’ll be fine.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “I’m out swimming with a friend.” After a long moment, he says, “Hello? Are you still there?” He pauses. “Okay.” He presses the on-screen hang-up button and shuts the phone down. “There.” He throws me a sexy smile.

I’ve seen that smile before. Actually, it’s the way Javar Les used to look at me when he was teaching me how to swim–only I wasn’t single then, and oh boy, did I let him know it. I’d called Adrian my fiancé, especially when Javar’s underwater hard-on nudged me in the thigh or stabbed me in the butt. This time, I have no excuses.
 

Should I tell him that I could never be interested in him in that way? It’s not that I don’t find him attractive or nice or mildly interesting; it’s just my heart can’t withstand another disappointment. And it’s still in love with the man I thought was my Prince Charming.
 

“I don’t know what’s going on with this guy,” Pete mumbles while shaking his head.
 

“What guy?”
 

“I’m working for him. He’s a piece of work.”

“Oh,” I say and let it drop. Obviously he doesn’t want to elaborate.
 

“How good of a swimmer are you?” he asks cheerfully, changing the subject.
 

“Very good,” I reply with confidence.

“A damn good swimmer or just a very good swimmer?” There he goes with that flirty smirk.

“A damn good one.” Jeez, I’m returning the expression.
 

“So you can save my life if I drown because I’m a shitty swimmer?”

“Then you should stay near the shore.”

We chuckle. We make it to the sand, and I catch him watching me as I take off my jeans.
 

“I have a swimsuit on,” I mumble. He’s leering as if he’s going to see me in nothing at all.
 

“It’s nice,” he says. “Especially in the back.” He curves his neck to check out my backside.

I snatch off my baggy T-shirt. “Pete, you’re nice, but I’m healing”—I press my hand over my heart—“here.”

“Sometimes the best cure can be a racy affair.”
 

I refuse to look down at his junk. He’s wearing tight swim trunks, and I don’t want to know if it’s swollen down there or not.
 

“Time to swim,” I say and trot off toward the wonderful blue sea that’s calling my name.
 

Pete is on my heels. He’s persistent. He’s obviously not going to give up until he gets what he wants. Javar Les still hasn’t. He calls me at least twice every two months or so to ask when will I return to London or Paris. When I fly in to either city we always meet for lunch or dinner or a night on the town. And the visit always ends with him making moves that I subtly deflect.
 

Pete dives in right beside me. He matches me stroke for stroke.

“This way,” he calls, and I follow him eastward.
 

We stay at it for a while, swimming along the shoreline. He’s a good swimmer, way better than I can ever be.

“How’s it going?” he asks as I start to run out of steam.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m just going to backstroke to dry land.”
 

“All right,” he says.

“You are an excellent swimmer,” I admit while puffing. “I was trying to show you up, but you showed me.”

Suddenly he wraps his arms around me. Dang it, even in the cool water he’s worked himself up. Before I know it, we’re kissing. My head isn’t spinning. My heart isn’t racing. All I can think about is how odd this feels. How wrong it feels. I pull away from him and backstroke toward the shore.
 

We’re at least a quarter mile out when the current turns on us. My arms are heavy, and the muscles in my legs cramp. I’m definitely pushing it. The easiest way to do this is to flip over and free-style it to the sand.
 

Suddenly I feel myself being pulled under. I know I’ve been caught by a riptide. Usually I can swim my way out of one, but I’m confused and exhausted, unable to figure out which way is up and which way is down. I can no longer hold my breath and I choke. It doesn’t take long to lose full control of my body and black out.
 

The next thing I know, I’m coughing and gagging water out of my throat. I’m on solid ground and freezing.
 

“Are you okay?” Pete asks, kneeling next to me. He sounds terrified.
 

“Yeah,” I wheeze. “Now I am.” Coughing and spitting up saltwater is not a pretty sight or a comfortable feeling. My throat burns and my head feels as though a vise is squeezing it.

“Better?” he asks as I quiet down.

“Better,” I gasp and cough once.
 

Pete strokes my face like a good caretaker while staring into my eyes. “I have something to admit.”
 

I frown curiously. I’m too weak to respond.

“I might have copped a feel and tongued you a little.”

I laugh as much as I can, and my head turns dizzy.

“I think we should get you to the hospital,” he says.

“No,” I insist as I touch his shoulder.

“You really should get checked out just in case something’s going on inside of you. I don’t want you to fall asleep and choke on more saltwater,” he says as he helps me to my feet.

Heck, that does sound scary. “Since you put it like that...”
 

***

Belmont Lord

“Pete!” Belmont shouted into the tiny device he crushed in his grip. The last thing Pete said was that he was going swimming with the houseguest.
What the hell is happening?
It’s as if as soon as he takes one step forward, he stumbles ten steps backward.

Belmont was prepared to wait until tonight to see Daisy but he had changed his mind. He was in Boston picking up a special present for her. As soon as he landed on the Vineyard, he planned to drive straight to Thelma’s and collect his woman. But at the moment he was stuck in traffic. In normal traffic, he would be at Boston Logan in fifteen minutes, but the mid-morning traffic was sure to delay him nearly thirty minutes. It would take another thirty-five minutes to land in Vineyard Haven. Pete had almost an hour to attempt to seduce Daisy.
 

The one thing Belmont loved about her most was what he feared. She’s affable and always willing to go for the ride without knowing where she’ll end up. Look how far Pete had gotten. Hearing her laughing that morning during breakfast was maddening. What in the hell did she find so goddamn funny? Did she miss him? It sure as hell didn’t sound like it.
 

Belmont blasted the horn of the Porsche as if that would help. The car in front of him returned the gesture. When he finally made it to the airport garage where he paid to keep his car parked, he felt as if a thousand bricks had been lifted off his back. He grabbed his travel bag and hiked to the private terminal. He rushed through security screening and ran all the way to the jet. That drive actually took twenty minutes, and then they had to wait another twenty minutes to be cleared for takeoff.
 

The flight took another thirty minutes. As he sat, he wondered how he would find Daisy and Pete on the beach. Would they be lying beside each other sharing personal stories? Would she tell him all about her brother? Would she let him kiss her, touch her, and make love to her? Visualizing the progression made him crazy.
 

The small plane finally landed. Belmont grabbed his bag and disembarked in five minutes or less. He ran to his car, hopped into the Beamer, and raced to Thelma’s place in North Tisbury. He parked in her driveway and ran to the back of the house to search out below the cliff. He looked across the sand and out in the water. Daisy was nowhere to be found.