Still Summer

  “No one’s supposed to know. One, and only once in a while.”

  “Me too. Do you have one?”

  He sat cross-legged beside her, and she held the blanket to her chest as he cupped his hands and lit the match for her. “You should, really, I’m not having bad manners here, but you should wear a sweatsuit or something. You might get chilly,” Michel said.

  Olivia smoked her cigarette delicately and didn’t answer. She combed her thick, wavy hair back from her face and looked up at Michel from under heavy, artfully smudged eyelids. Finally, she flicked the butt over the side, turning a quizzical face to him.

  “It’s biodegradable,” Michel said. “I use organic.”

  “Now, you could lend me your sweatshirt there. I’m sure you have ten,” said Olivia.

  “That’s fine,” Michel said, reaching over his head to slip it off.

  “Or, well, there are other ways to stay warm.” She drew the blanket back and was naked.

  Michel knew before he smiled that he would regret this. But he was nothing if not polite; and she was alluring, this odd woman, not beautiful like Cammie. It was Cammie, off limits to him, who had him unsettled in his skin and yearning. This was being offered. . . . He pulled his sweatshirt over his head, but then folded it to use as a pillow.

  Day Four

  Cammie woke first and set about making her own coffee.

  Lenny, already dressed in a T-shirt and cutoff shorts, overtook her, guiding her to a seat in the saloon.

  “You’re supposed to relax,” he said.

  “It’s so beautiful. The boat. Even the air. Where does the water come from? In the taps?”

  “We have tanks filled with fresh water. Why do you ask?”

  “Can you make fresh water from salt water?”

  “We have a water maker, but it’d take you days to make enough for a shower.”

  “The salt must get to your skin.”

  “It does.” Lenny smiled. “But my skin’s shot anyhow. I didn’t even wear sunscreen till my wife made me. She made me go to the doctor and get checked for melanoma before we got married. She said she didn’t mind marrying an old man, but she did mind marrying a dead one.”

  They both laughed.

  “I think you’ve got it pretty good.”

  “I do, too,” Lenny said. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m studying engineering.”

  “Must be hard.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t like the other crap I have to do. Poetry and stuff.”

  “That’s weird. I see a lot of college kids on our charters, with their friends or with their parents. They’re all stressed about jobs. Stressed about school,” Lenny said.

  “Hmmm,” Cammie said. “Well, I have a guaranteed job. My dad and I are going to start our own company after I’m finished.”

  Lenny said, “I like that part. I like being my own boss. I worry about the boat too much. And we want to make it perfect, me especially. I go nuts over it. I can’t tell you how we do it. It’s hard work, though I know it looks like one long vacation. But we love it here. And doing this lets us stay and have the boat.”

  “Yeah. But you work in paradise.”

  “There’s a dark underbelly,” Lenny told her, smiling, trying to draw her eyes from the sight of Michel, silently slipping down into his cabin. Damn, he thought. What he had heard in the night, with that third ear of his, had been genuine. Even for Michel, this was unprecedented, the first night out. Lenny didn’t want this kid to know. It was distasteful. He tried to distract her by showing her where to find sugar. “A lot of people here who want to use people, or have people use them.”

  “Sounds like an Annie Lennox song,” Cammie said. Lenny had no idea who Annie Lennox was, but he nodded.

  “Do you have kids?” Cammie asked as the rich, dark blend began to drip.

  “I have one kid, but not your age,” said Lenny. “He’s about this big. He thinks I’m king every time I give him a graham cracker.” He made a two-foot span with his hands.

  “A baby!” Cammie said. “My mom loves babies.”

  “You don’t seem so bad.”

  “Ah, I have a dark underbelly. See, my mother and her friends? They were like this gang in high school. They have pictures of themselves with their beehives and black mini-skirts, like Catholic Goth girls. They called themselves the Godmothers. You know the movie The Godfather? Well, they wanted to be these total rebels. But they were these little suburban girls. I don’t think any one of them ever even got a speeding ticket. When they tell stories, it’s about running a stick along the metal fence at St. Dominic’s monastery to make the Doberman pinschers that the monks kept there go nuts. They’re ridiculous. I make fun of them.”

  “So your dark underbelly isn’t so dark.”

  “I could go either way,” Cammie said, pouring about half a cup of milk into her coffee.

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, it drives my mother crazy. She never gets mad. I’ve been trying for nineteen years.”

  Lenny wondered why she was so confiding. Then he remembered being seventeen, leaving Iowa for boot camp, spilling to an old woman on the bus. There was solace in the stranger on the train, who would never see you again—like the psychological harvesting of bartenders. He could only imagine the tales Quinn Reilly collected at his pub.

  “Maybe you need to cut loose for a year after college, hike across Australia, go in the Peace Corps, come here and hire out as crew. You don’t appreciate a warm bed and four walls until you’re soaking wet, trying to lower a sail in a hurricane.”

  “I was thinking about something like that. You think I’d learn my lesson then, right?”

  “I did. I never felt so lonely. And free.”

  “You’ve really been in a hurricane?”

  “You think?” Lenny said, and then repented. “Anyone who’s spent any time here has. I’ve watched it suck the water up into itself and then bounce like a ball, blowing up houses everywhere it touched. Bands of clouds were pulled down into it, too. And us all the while in complete calm, all hell breaking loose two hundred yards away.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Cammie said in a breath.

  “But exciting! And once, before I was with Michel, I crewed on a boat that was in a TD-two, that’s tropical depression two, and we had eighteen-foot seas. You’d just rise and fall, flip and fall. And it was a catamaran. It’s pretty easy to flip over a catamaran, because when they get going, they go up on one hull. Stuff was flying all over, charts and papers, food, cupboard doors coming off, cans of food rolling around.”

  “Wow. What a memory to have. If you live,” Cammie said, but not fearfully, more as if she were rolling the idea around in her mouth, tasting it.

  “What’s a memory if you live?” Tracy asked, ducking her head as she picked her way from the riotous bright of the sunny morning into the shadows of the saloon. “I slept like the dead.”

  “People do or they don’t,” Lenny told her. “Me, I like the rocking. It comforts me. Other people say it disorients them.”

  “Mom, Lenny has a little baby,” Cammie said. “Does your wife come out with you?”

  “Not very much. Meherio likes her ocean three feet deep and warm. We’ll sail to Trinidad this winter, though. When it’s just your family, it’s easier.”

  “That’s a beautiful name,” Tracy said as Lenny thought, What nice people. Except the pretty twist up in the hammock. Who was, for all he knew, nice as well. She just didn’t strike him that way. Tracy was what his mother would have called a “handsome woman,” strong and attractive without any of her daughter’s glamour. “What does it mean?”

  “Meherio? In Maori, I think it means a mermaid or one who brings gifts. She’s brought them to me. We’re expecting again.”

  “Congratulations,” Tracy told him, accepting her coffee.

  “Can we dive right after breakfast?” Cammie asked.

  “Not right after. As soon as I do the paperwork and we moor, thoug
h,” Lenny promised. “You two go up now. I’ll bring up some cinnamon rolls in a few minutes.”

  Left alone, he scanned the horizon again. Something felt odd to him. Nothing was there. He called out on the SSB to find Lee, partly to see if the bar would be open and partly to ask if Lee had heard of any weather.

  “You’re going to make me tell that story again,” Lee accused him. “Well, come on over. For the one supernatural experience in all fifty-five years of my life, it sure gets a lot of attention. And no, there’s nothing out there, Len.”

  Still, Lenny called Sharon Gleeman, his favorite captain, next. Sixty years old and still sailing with her partner, Reginald Black, Sharon was coming in to take her boat to the Hamptons for the season after a three-week charter. Sharon had so much money, she had no need to do charters. But she loved the business. Reginald was queer as a limerick, said Sharon, who had spent her younger years with the proverbial lover in every port. But they had co-owned Big Spender for thirty of them. Her house in the Hamptons, where Lenny had visited, had seven bedrooms. Nothing’s out there, Lenny, she told him. But she warned him not to provision too much. She had scads of food left over from a charter that was cut short by a family emergency for one of the guests.

  “What do I owe you?” Lenny asked, ritually.

  “A visit at Christmas,” Sharon replied. “It’s you or the sharks, Len, for the food. I don’t mind giving it to you.”

  They said good-bye fondly. It must be the news of Meherio’s having the new baby that had him edgy, Lenny thought.

  Olivia wandered out of her cabin. She wore loose white pants and a see-through white shirt over a bathing suit. She gulped down two cups of coffee and picked at a roll.

  “Did you sleep well?” Lenny asked.

  “In a sense,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “This boat agrees with me.”

  “I heard you lived in Italy.”

  “My husband died six months ago. He had pancreatic cancer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lenny said, his mind shying from the image of any life without Meherio.

  Olivia said, “I’m glad he’s at peace. There’s that, at least. His partner bought out the fattoria, and I came home.”

  “Does it feel like home?” Lenny asked.

  “Not yet. But then, I’ve only had a day there. We came here the day after I arrived. I’ve only seen my mother for an afternoon.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever feel as though it’s home?”

  “I don’t know,” Olivia said thoughtfully, breaking off another crumb. Holly had emerged from her cabin and thrown herself down on the banquette next to Tracy. “If it doesn’t, I’ll go back. Or somewhere else. I’m fortunate to have the choice. But when you’re lonely, you want your friends around you.”

  “She wouldn’t let us come for the funeral,” Tracy said.

  “Because there was no funeral. Franco was buried on his family’s land, by a priest we barely knew. There was no reason.”

  “We could have been there for you. And brought home all that wine,” Holly said, her voice muffled.

  “You don’t know how many cases I’ve sent you! Dozens and dozens! I took all the best stuff,” Olivia said, and Holly pantomimed clapping her hands. Then she lowered them to her lap.

  Making sure Tracy observed her generosity, Holly continued, “You should have let us come, Livy. I know you didn’t have friend friends there.”

  “I was fine. We had some good acquaintances and a private nurse. It had been such a horrible death, even with all the painkillers, and he was such a happy man . . . I considered staying on and running the business. But Franco’s partner bought the business and the villa from me. Franco had an ex-wife, too. Did you know that? She was very beautiful and stylish. Andrianna. She sailed. She had her own boat. Felicia. Happiness. She died in a storm off the Italian Riviera. She was alone.”

  “Sounds like Rebecca de Winter,” said Holly.

  “Who’s Rebecca Dee Winter?” Cammie asked. The three older women sighed.

  “Didn’t they make them read Rebecca?” Holly asked.

  “I have a copy,” said Lenny. “I’ll give it to her.”

  “Did she die in a sailboat?”

  “Yeah. Sort of,” Tracy answered.

  “Ladies, if you have to make phone calls home, now’s the time. After we head offshore, all that will work are the radios.”

  Tracy called Jim and Ted. Ted asked to speak to Cammie, and Cammie said cheerfully that she’d bring him a T-shirt. What did he want on it? She rhapsodized about the weather and told her father that she loved him and to have the temp file the building permits for the Serranos’ lake house. Tracy called Janis. Dave was fine, of course, sitting up and eating tapioca pudding. It had been a smoking appendix—hardly the end of the world.

  “I told you so,” Tracy chided her.

  “You don’t have to,” Janis said. “If you can take any pleasure in it, I’m absolutely miserable. It’s so hot that if you were here now, you’d want to buy a condo in hell. The dog has a urinary tract infection. What are you doing?”

  “Finishing homemade cinnamon roles and Mimosas. Then we’re going diving at Norman Island, the real Treasure Island.”

  “I hope you drown. How’s Livy?”

  “She’s fine, really, she’s fine. I think she had time to come to grips with Franco’s death before. It probably was sort of a relief. I should run. Love you, cuz.”

  “Love you, too. Have a ball, Trace. I mean it.”

  Michel appeared, looking hangdog. “Len, I’ve checked everything. So, should I get the tanks ready? Two are diving? One snorkeling?” Len shrugged and looked at the women.

  Holly said, “I’ll snorkel.”

  To her credit, Michel thought, she pulled a terrycloth cover-up over her head and was wearing a discreet two-piece with a veil around the middle. She wasn’t like some women, who came out here and forgot they were twenty pounds overweight.

  Tracy slipped out of her shorts. She wore a bright red maillot from some sensible catalog. Michel was surprised. This woman was all muscle. A moment later, Cammie emerged, glorious in her aquamarine thong bikini.

  “Will I have to wear a wet suit today, Lenny?” she asked.

  “Most people do. You could get scratched or stung, and the sun out here is stronger than you think. But you don’t have to. I do. I’m always cold.”

  “I’ll try without, then. I was hot in mine yesterday,” Cammie said. Lenny shook his head.

  “Well, sit tight. We have a little trip first. Michel will take you down. You’ll see some beautiful things. Like an aquarium where all the tropical fish have grown up. Rays. Maybe a reef shark or two. Definitely. Beautiful day.”

  “I’m up for it,” Olivia said. Michel looked more miserable. Serves him right, thought Lenny. Then Olivia added, “But I’m too tired. I need a sleep.”

  “I thought you said the boat agreed with you. Maybe you need some ginger pills,” said Lenny, and he loped down two steps to extract a big bottle from a cabinet. “Works rings around Dramamine.”

  “It’s not that,” Olivia answered. “I just got distracted by the stars.” She directed a wisp of a smile at Michel and disappeared below. No one except Cammie noticed.

  Cammie stared at Michel with a slight sneer. Michel was the first to look away.

  By the time they had motored to Norman Island and moored on a white day sailing buoy, it was late morning. They’d passed up Madwoman Reef as it was crowded with the last of the tourist season party-hardies, and Lenny abhorred foolish divers. The sea was a mirror. The women were geared up, and Michel had gone over the cursory modes of entering the water, the rules about avoiding coral and never touching anything, except perhaps a sea cucumber he would give each of them to hold for a moment. Olivia was still sleeping. They opted not to wake her.

  Cammie was obviously angry. She took her wide stride into the water before Michel gave her the okay and rolled over to wait, looking away.

  Michel fetched his cam
era. “Is it okay to take some pictures of you underwater? We can send them to you and maybe use them in our new brochure. We don’t usually have divers who are so . . . uh . . .”

  “He’s trying to say beautiful,” Lenny called.

  “I don’t care,” Cammie told him. “Whatever.”

  Thankful for Olivia’s exhaustion, Michel was grateful that he didn’t have to deal with dual hormones seven fathoms down.

  While Holly snorkeled happily above them, Michel, Tracy, and Cammie lowered themselves on the rope, three feet at a time, to fifty feet. He pointed out parrot fish, clowns, a barracuda longer than Cammie was tall. A reef shark crossed the sun slowly above them. When they came upon a massive ugly grouper, Michel motioned to tell them this was a good eating fish, along with the kingfishes they saw. He handed each of the women a sea cucumber to allow them to handle its deceptive, foamy heft. After he eyeballed each of their tanks, they rose slowly and then entered one of the caves. Within a few feet, they were able to stand. Tracy shoved up her mask and could barely pull out her regulator before exclaiming, “This is the most amazing dive I’ve ever had. Better than Mexico. I’ve never seen so many fish.”

  “No one can catch them. That’s why they’re so used to people. If you had a spear gun, you could,” Michel said.

  “Did you ever?”

  “We have. Not around here. Lenny keeps one in his room, with the real gun.”

  “Ah, a real gun,” Cammie said. “Very macho. What’s that for?”

  “It’s a rifle. It’s just for safety. He doesn’t load it. You never know. People have been attacked out here, raped or robbed. But we were talking about the spear gun. It’s easy, like operating . . . like a slingshot. Shoot and reel it up. Like a popgun that’s sharp. You wear gloves and you work in a team, and you have to have a net ready and grab the line fast, before they dive.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you saw the size of that thing. And it would be bleeding.”

  “So you wouldn’t want to prolong the agony?”

  “I wouldn’t want to attract the sharks. But the fish are protected here, and they know it,” Michel said. Cammie turned away, looking out at the horizon.