What Happens in Paradise(43)

Mama said, “You got home late last night, mon chou.” (She uses the French phrases that she picked up in Paris when she’s displeased; it’s a signal I alone understand.) “I want you to tell me right now that you are not back involved with Oscar. I’ve heard he’s been sniffing around.”

Estella must have been talking to Dearie, who did my mother’s hair. I faced her on the stone walk outside the Catholic church and said, “Mama, I am not involved with Oscar.”

Her expression was dubious but my words contained conviction. “Better not be,” she said.





Even though we were traveling over water, which was a lot safer than land, I had to be sneaky. I left my car at the National Park Service sign as though I had indeed headed to Salomon Bay, but instead I hiked down to the public part of Honeymoon Beach and cut through the back way so that I popped out of the trees in a place where I could wade to the skiff, which I did, holding my bag above my head. Russ was waiting for me with a cooler and a picnic basket he’d asked the hotel to pack. I started the motor on the first try, and we were off.

It was an idyllic day. The water sparkled in the sun; the air had a rare scrubbed-clean feel, as though it had just received a benediction. It was as fine a performance by planet Earth as I had ever seen. Russ had on bathing trunks, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a baseball cap that said IOWA CITY ROTARY CLUB, which made me chuckle because, really, what was I doing with this guy? And yet I liked him. Just as I thought I had him pegged as one kind of person—he had just ended his second term on the Iowa City school board; he was encouraging his mother, Milly, to move into a retirement community but she was having none of it—he would pull out a surprise. Like the way he stroked behind my knee in a spot so sweet and sensitive, I had a hard time concentrating.

We anchored off of Little Cinnamon because the cliff above was undeveloped so no one would be spying on us with binoculars for voyeuristic purposes. Russ unpacked the cooler—there was a nice bottle of Sancerre for me, the Chavignol, which I loved, and a couple of cold beers for Russ. There were slender baguette sandwiches with duck, arugula, and fig jam, and as I ate one, all I could think of was Remy the chef preparing them, having no idea that one was for me. There was also a container of truffled potato salad and a couple of lemon tarts, and I thought of how nice it was to be on the receiving end of Caneel’s hospitality for once.

We puttered along the north shore as far as Waterlemon Cay, where we stopped again because, although we hadn’t brought snorkeling gear, you could watch turtles pop their heads above the surface for air and Russ loved that. It was hot enough that we both decided to jump in for a swim and Russ held me in the water, his arms incredibly strong for a corn-syrup salesman or whatever he was. We kissed, and I thought, What are we doing here at Waterlemon Cay when we have a perfectly good hotel room?

I said, “Do you think you’ll take the job?”

“It’s hard to say no. The signing bonus is nearly as much as I make in a year right now.”

“If you take the job, will you spend more time down here?” Unfortunately, my voice betrayed what I was really asking: Would I ever see him again? I was afraid the answer would be no; I was afraid the answer would be yes. What we were doing was wrong. He was married with two sons in high school and he must have been trying not to imagine what they would think if they could see him at that moment. But…it was as if we were living in a sealed bubble. One weekend in February in the sixth year of the new millennium, this happened. I had a vague idea that affairs like this could actually improve a marriage. Russ would return to Iowa City with not only a big job offer but also a sense of power and virility, and Irene would see him in a new light. They would renew their vows, go on a second honeymoon.

And for me—well, things wouldn’t be awful for me either. I had faith in men again. The ghost of Oscar was permanently banished; every time I thought of him helpless and whimpering in Russ’s grip, I thought, How pathetic. I would venture forth with my self-esteem and self-worth restored. I would meet someone like Russ—kind, thoughtful, secure, adult—and that would blossom into the relationship that this could never be.

Our affair would be almost excusable if this all turned out to be the case. But even as I had these pretty and nice thoughts about us both going our own ways after this without any looking back, I felt my heart stirring up trouble. Maybe Russ was experiencing the same thing, because he looked genuinely crestfallen as he said, “You know, I’m really not sure. I know there will be travel with this job but I think it’ll be in dull places like Palm Beach and Midland, Texas. I think Todd just brought me down here to woo me.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my tone light and unconcerned. “Let’s go back to the hotel, then, and properly enjoy the time we have left.”

We did just that, and it was wonderful—not only the sex, but also falling asleep in that luscious bed with our limbs intertwined.

When I woke up, he was staring at me just like the leading man in the movies looks at his leading lady—right before he betrays her or kills her or carries her off into the sunset.

“You’re exquisite,” he said. “And just now, watching you sleep, I felt so…privileged. Like I’ve been granted a private viewing of the Mona Lisa.”

“Everyone says the Mona Lisa is so beautiful,” I said. “But frankly, I don’t get it.”