Drowning Lessons

by Rachel Neuburger Reynolds

  I screamed when I walked into my room, as the shadow of a man on my couch moved. Frozen in a superannuated moment, I finally reached for the light as I heard my name muttered. “Lex…”

  “Migs! You can’t just…” I didn’t know what to say.

  He lounged on the couch, a bottle of Patron tequila and two small glasses on the table in front of him. He rubbed his eyes and smiled wickedly, sitting up straight. He was dressed casually, in a worn white t-shirt showing off his toned arms and worn jean shorts. Barefoot of course.

  With snake hips, I think they call them.

  “According to your partner in crime,” he said, opening the bottle of tequila, “we need to buddy up and look after each other. You need someone to protect you from things that go bump in the night. No one better than me for that. What time is it?” He stretched his arms in an exaggerated yawn.

  Maybe it won’t be so bad for someone to hold me close all night.

  “Close to three. In the witching hour.” I wasn’t close to being tired.

  “What’s the witching hour?”

  “Technically between midnight and four in the morning. If you want to be particular…”

  He seductively smiled. “You are so strange, in the best of ways.” He patted the space on the couch next to him. “Come, sit. Have a drink.”

  I felt the pressure to speak but instead sat next to him. Rejection was clearly not a word in his vocabulary. Without asking me if I wanted it, or even if I wanted him to stay, he poured two shots of tequila.

  “Cheers,” he toasted, “to the strangest week of my life, and that’s by no means an exaggeration.” He flirted, and I retreated, becoming a completely nonsexual creature by his side. “Strictly as a friend, I think you should forget about finding any murderer. It’s been entertaining, and I’m perversely getting a kick out of it, but I’ve been taking in everything that you’ve seen and heard. Face the fact that the right man is probably in jail. Either make plans for them to get married at the police station or jump ship. Seriously, Lexie, you’re on a wild goose chase.”

  We said nothing, but drank a number of tequila shots in a short period of time. “Thank you,” I said. I tapped my tingly fingers against the shot glass. “Do you know anything about necrotizing fasciitis?”

  He chose to ignore this question and gave me a big smile. “You know, and I know you know, that all I want to do is kiss you right now. That’s all, gorgeous, to just hold you and kiss you all night.” He ran his hand through my hair and continued, “Unless you want something else, of course.”

  I flinched and moved just a little away from him.

  “You’re not attracted to me?” he asked in a way that showed he thought it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. And it was. His attractiveness was not an opinion. It was a fact.

  “That’s not it.”

  “I’ve got a second wind going. How about taking a dip, then?”

  “I can’t swim.”

  “I know you can’t swim. You tell me every chance you get. I’ll teach you.”

  “What is this? A reality show? You’re the second person in two nights.”

  “You need a local. You need a friend. You need to know at least how to keep floating. You’ll find that you are actually very buoyant. But seriously, you need to know what to do in a worst-case scenario. ‘Cuz it’s very possible you might find yourself in a worst-case scenario. I mean I’m not trying to scare you or anything. Not right now, at least.”

  Being out in the moonlight felt right. I didn’t feel uncomfortable when peeling down to my underwear and easing myself into the water.

  Migs walked me out to chest deep water. “Are you going to give up your quest for justice?”

  “I want to. But I don’t think I can.”

  “You’re a good friend to a silly woman. Okay, you just need to be able to float on your back, you floatable you. I’m going to put my arms under your back and then you just slowly lay down. Look at the moon and remember that I won’t let go until you say the word. Spread your arms and legs and relax. Not like that. Look at the stars and listen to the water. You’re already floating. My hands just happen to be under you.”

  I would have liked to have slept right there. “Do fish sleep?”

  “Yes,” he responded, as he looked down at me. “Kissable you.”

  I closed my eyes. “You can let go now.” And we floated, silent and safe, until the sun started to rise.

  I said nothing to Migs when I finally waded back to my cabin. My thanking smile for a moment of calm was all the thanks he needed.

  DAY FOUR

  Chapter 25: What Comes Around

  I should have guessed that I wouldn’t be alone when I woke up. I should have had the forethought to pretend to be asleep until I was ready to meet the day. Olivia was staring at me when I opened my eyes, arm outstretched with an offering of 6 a.m. coffee.

  As soon as she parted her pouting lips, I said, “No. Be quiet.”

  I drank my coffee in silence, not in any calm, as Olivia traded off between staring at me and tearing at her fingernails.

  She took a pause. “As Thoreau said, true friendship is never serene.”

  She still had last night’s make up on; black mascara caked on in a raccoon style around her eyes. She’d definitely skipped the shower option that morning, again, but had made a last-ditch attempt at being presentable in a preppy looking pink dress and matching espadrilles.

  The smeared eyes gave me a momentary flashback to 16-year old gothic Olivia: huge teased hair, torn up stockings, and black, black, black. Black clothes, black humor, black bedroom walls. A simpler time. A better time.

  I was not in the mood. “Just to clear the air, it wasn’t Thoreau, it was—oh, forget it—and I would say it goes far beyond not serene.”

  I’d only seen that expression of apology once before. After Olivia had stopped having panic attacks over Ryan, she’d found another love of her life at a party in Princeton. He was a drummer in a punk rock band that was going to tour the West Coast for a few months, and he had invited her along.

  She had no money for the ticket to Los Angeles, so after a long conversation, I lent her my credit card to pay $186 for a one-way ticket to California. Though Olivia’s family had more than enough money to send her to LA, or a summer in Monte Carlo for that matter, they’d never in a million years subsidize a semester away from Princeton. If she’d wanted to spend a semester in Kenya learning from the Maasai warriors, that was one thing, but to fund her daughter slumming it with a third-rate band up and down the Pacific Coast. No way. It was on me.

  When my statement came a few weeks later, I was met with only $28 of credit remaining and an $800 charge for a one-way, first-class ticket. That card was my back up in case I couldn’t get a job during the semester, and I couldn’t carry that kind of a balance. After not hearing back from her for a month, I eventually had to plead with her well-off mother to pay me back.

  I think Marilyn Monroe said it best.

  I always get the fuzzy end of the lollypop.

  It had taken me a good three years to speak to her again, and much longer to forgive her. The rainy day we had finally met up, she sat across me in a West Village café, with the same quivering bottom lip, hopefully authentic, looking for redemption. Above all, love. The two of us sisters in not only superficial knuckle injuries, but in hopeless romanticism. We kept throwing ourselves out there, and we kept getting our hearts trampled on. We got each other. We understood each other implicitly, and that always wiped the slate clean.

  Sitting across from her now, almost thirteen years later, I was unfortunately just as apt to forgive her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Really? What are you sorry for, exactly?” I snapped back. She said nothing, perhaps not knowing where to start on the long list, or truly not understanding. “You disappeared last night! I had twenty people on top of me like a mob asking me what I knew, what was being done, and where the hell you were!”


  “I had a panic attack. I had to go.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t. You’re always right, always smarter than me, which is why I always need your help. Please, just come with me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I panicked.” She handed over a crumpled note on hotel eco-recycled paper from Amanda, demanding that she attend a meeting of the bridesmaids at the Pickled Parrot at sunrise. There was nothing friendly about the message. No “XOXO,” no “Love ya” and certainly no “So excited to see you!”

  Be there, or suffer the wrath of those who have served you so faithfully.

  I spoke only one sentence to her on the boat ride to the meeting. “What’s the bad business that was going on between Nico and Walter?”

  She threw her hands up in exasperation and that was the extent of our conversation.

  There was no chance of running into anyone else at the Pickled Parrot at 7:30 a.m., and I’m frankly surprised it was open.

  Amanda was drinking a fruity cocktail with whipped cream on top, large sunglasses hiding whatever was going on in her world.

  Olivia strutted over to the table, as composed as she could hope to be, and sat down with a giant smile, ready to start spinning whatever tale she had concocted.

  “First I want to apologize. I should have told you what was going on. And I know people think I was putting them in danger, but I wasn’t. I was doing what both the police and the lawyers were telling me, but I should have told you guys. And Interpol. And I’m sorry.”

  “Poppycock,” Phil coughed into his hand before drinking his mimosa.

  Amanda raised her half-empty drink to Olivia saying, “Everyone hates you. A lot.”

  Olivia tried to grin and bear it, but the group expressed they were tired, disappointed, and had been taken for fools. No one seemed scared, however. There was very likely a murderer in our mix, but they were more hurt by her betrayal than concerned with a frog poison killer. They were sick of the treatment they had been getting and went around the table, listing off the terrible things she had put us through.

  Amanda was still feeling humiliated by Olivia’s temper tantrum at the costume party.

  Phil’s major gripe was at Olivia’s request that he taste every dish being proposed for the wedding dinner. “Did you think,” he spat out, “that it would be okay if I died and you didn’t? You said it was for taste’s sake, but now I’m seeing a very different you.”

  Olivia weakly listed some things that she hadn’t asked us to do that she’d read about, like insisting that all the females went on birth control pills so no one would be pregnant at the wedding. She mentioned that some brides had required bedtimes, and even dying their bridesmaids’ hair similar shades of mousy brown to contrast her platinum blonde.

  “You know me,” she whispered. “I know I can be overbearing, but I’m a good person and I know I’ve been terrible.”

  “How about you?” Phil asked me. “Do you have anything you want to add since we are clearing the air?”

  There were a million things, but I shook my head no, with Phil mouthing back, “Really?”

  Half of the guests were clamoring to get off the island. Rumors were going around that the airport was going to open in time for the 5 p.m. flight that day. Soon, there’d be no wedding to save.

  Still, there was not one person in our group who believed for a second that Walter could be guilty. I was having my doubts, though, and Detective LaGuardia’s “if he swims like a fish” cliché was hitting home a little bit.

  After the humble apologies, Olivia took my hand, smiled at the group and said, “Don’t worry. The show will go on. Lexie’s rocked it and it's looking like she’s proven that Walter is innocent. It was Becky. The police are getting ready to bring her in.”

  “That’s an exaggeration. She’s not being brought in. It’s a conversation that—”

  “Only because the police haven’t gotten back to you….” As if that was the way law enforcement went.

  Conversation shifted to how Olivia was going to get herself back into the guests’ good graces, and it was clear that was to orchestrate the simple return of technology. Olivia had a grand idea about giving back the phones en masse, suggesting that she have a big party at Red Frog Beach. Walter would be free, everyone would be checking emails, and all in the world would be fine once more.

  No. We insisted the only way to even start patching up the situation was for Olivia to go to everyone, one by one, apologize, return all phones, and to take whatever would be thrown at her, both literally and metaphorically.

  Grasping at straws to retain some part of her plan, Olivia asked the group if they thought she could still request folks not to take pictures at the wedding, but now she was a captive of the bridal party, who unanimously said no. This was mutiny, and we were now running the ship, at least for a little bit of time.

  “Would anyone be able to run the surf school event since Lexie’s wrapping up the murder issue?” Olivia pleasantly asked.

  Marianna took over as if she had been the one who saved the day.

  I handed over the papers and diagrams I had jammed in my book.

  As if solving Nico’s murder was just something to check off in the binder.

  I wasn’t up for the break of dawn cocktail party and walked towards the dock without saying goodbye.

  Olivia chased after me, “Thanks for everything.” She took my hand leading me down the dock, talking as quietly as possible. “And please keep this between us, my Blood Sister. Even though I understand that the airport is scheduled to open, I’ve bought all the tickets on the afternoon flight, so that buys us some time. All the way until noon tomorrow. Honestly, I’d buy all the tickets for tomorrow, but I’ve maxed out my AmEx! I thought there was supposed to be no limit on the American Express card. It’s platinum for the love of…do you have any credit left on any of your cards?”

  No, of course not.

  “I’m not sure I actually believed it yesterday, but I know without a doubt, with you on my side, I’m still getting married tomorrow.” Before any response, Olivia turned and skipped back to the rest of her entourage.

  She’s gone over the line.

  Understatement of the century.

  Certifiably insane.

  Maybe Max and I could make amends. A delicious but fleeting thought entered my mind. Maybe she could take me off the island on her chartered jet, which was surely scheduled for later in the morning. But the fantasy disintegrated when I realized that she just might be one of the guests to stay until the end. She was enjoying this.

  Chapter 26: You Have To Kiss A Lot Of Frogs To Find A Prince

  Though it felt like it was time for lunch, it was only going on 10 a.m., so it was as good a time as any to figure out how to get the detectives to come and detain Becky. And set Walter free.

  I walked over to Josh’s to get his final take on it. There was no answer when I knocked on his door, so I walked in like everyone did on the island. The doors to his back deck were open and the morning light was flooding in. I heard his quiet snores coming from the platform above. It was a peaceful snore, one that you could sleep next to and get into the rhythm of, not much more than very heavy breathing.

  Salty’s log sawing was unbearable. As my affection for him faded, we would fall asleep and then I’d retreat to the guest room, thoughts about leaving him running through my mind at a million miles a minute. On our last vacation, for my sanity, I’d eventually sneak out to sleep in the humidity by the pool, under the stars on the beach of St. John. The last two nights I booked my own room, with no resistance from the other party concerned.

  Most people would rather date an alcoholic than a chronic snorer. I had read it in a survey somewhere and agreed heartily. I’d held my own survey in one of the final nights of Left Behind and the group agreed. Rather alone than with a snorer.

  “Josh,” I called as I went up.

  He quizzically looked at me as I approached his bed. He grunted, “Is it already office hours?”r />
  He rubbed his eyes and put his glasses on - nice thin wire rims, just slightly smudged. His hair was pointing every which way, and he had imprints from the sheets on his face. His stubble had specs of grey, and he slept without a shirt, with the cute little belly that emerges on artsy men who were once very lanky and had never the need or desire to work out. He’d have to get rid of it eventually. Just as I’d eventually have to get rid of mine.

  “Why don’t you sit down instead of just nervously looking at me?” He propped himself up on his elbow, “You look terrible. Not like that. You look exhausted.”

  For a writer, he didn’t have the best way with words. “I’m going back to the police office if you want to come, and bring them back here because I can only think that it’s Becky. I know you’re skeptical, but she’s the only one with a motive. She was acting terribly guilty yesterday. Nico was leaving her. She is the only one that makes sense.”

  “Of course she might, but what about the mysterious fiancé? What if Nico wasn’t leaving her?”

  “She kept the ring. So, why wouldn’t she? And why would he want it back?” You’ve got a lot to learn about women.

  The ring always struck me as strange, especially her grilling me over my book, the guidebook for the perpetually single. As long as LaGuardia could see she had more motive than Walter, I could be off the case. I didn’t want to be responsible for throwing this sweet girl in prison, but as I had been quickly learning, there is often more than what meets the eye. Who’s to say she wasn’t as bad as the rest of them?

  “I suppose it’s time to talk to her?” His expression mirrored mine, discomfort. It was one thing interviewing random people on the zip line tour and making notes in my little slam book, but talking to a real plausible suspect in a dark room was another thing altogether.

  “Let’s do it,” I said without confidence. Neither of us moved for a while. He got up to get dressed but, like an awkward teenager, asked me to wait outside.