The Great American Bachelor

by Adrienne Staff

  After another few delicious minutes she turned the water off, dried herself with the thin towel Gloria had given her, and reached outside. It was a shame to have to get back into these wet clothes, but her options were limited.

  She quickly sorted through the small pile of clothes and then stopped short. Something was missing. She checked again. Shirt, panties, shorts, all present and accounted for. But where was her bra? “What the—”

  Cathy hopped into what she had and stepped outside the makeshift shower. Across the alley was a group of boys about twelve years old, having a great game of shoot the can. Cathy watched the stone hit the can, and the can neatly topple into the dust. And then her eyes traveled back to the marksman and his slingshot. It was her bra!

  Cathy ground her teeth and marched around the side of the building. She was working her way through a surprisingly colorful set of expletives when she ran smack dab into Michael. “Damn!”

  He stared down at her, openmouthed. “I thought for a minute there I’d run into a shipload of sailors,” he said, eyeing her with newfound admiration. “That was quite a mouthful for a nice girl from Indiana.”

  “Stop putting down Indiana, Winters!” she shouted, poking him in the chest. “We know just as much as you New York types. We’ve just got more restraint, that’s all!”

  “I can tell,” he answered softly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Cathy took one look into his eyes and burst out laughing. She butted her head into his shoulder, leaning there and laughing while he held her and laughed with her, his breath lifting her damp hair.

  “Well, gonna tell me what happened?”

  “Later.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned back, smiling up at him. “What I want to know is, what’s going to happen next? Did you find a phone? Did you get us rescued? What now?”

  Michael took a deep breath, then shrugged. “I traded my Rolex for a sailboat. Guess it’s still just you and me, kid.”

  Ten

  “I don’t think this was worth a Rolex!” Cathy threw the little wooden sailboat a suspicious glance. Then her eyes flew back to Michael’s face like pigeons to their roost. He was security. Home. Everything she had.

  “Hey, stop looking so worried. This is a trusty little catboat, and we’re just heading across shallow water to the next cay.”

  If she was worried, Michael was anything but. Cathy could sense his excitement, made bolder and brasher by the challenge. He hopped onto the narrow deck and held to the mast as the boat swayed under his weight. “Looks watertight. Nice and steady. Come on board.”

  “Now?” she asked, wishing for a plane, a train, a helicopter, anything!

  “Come on. We’ll get a good start and make it to Little George Cay by nightfall. Here—” He held out one broad, suntanned hand.

  Cathy could see the scratches, the cuts, the jagged rip of one nail, the dirt on his hands and arms. It all matched his torn shorts and stained canvas shoes. But he was grinning from ear to ear, laugh lines etched white against the tan of his skin. She could almost see the excitement pumping through his veins. If his three-piece-suit associates in New York could see him now, they would have him committed!

  “You’re sure there was no phone?” she asked one last time.

  “Get on board, Indiana.” He offered his hand again, reaching for her, impatient to be gone.

  With a sigh Cathy took his hand and let him pull her onto the deck. The boat rocked, and she pushed Michael away for a good grip on the mast.

  “You don’t have to strangle the thing, Cathy. Just sit back, relax, and I’ll talk you through the whole thing. Okay?”

  “No,” she muttered.

  “Good. Now, you see that hollowed-out space back of the mast? Go sit down in there; that way you won’t get hit by the boom.”

  “You hit me with a boom or anything else, Mr. Winters, and your days are numbered. I don’t want to be here in the first place, and I certainly don’t want to get bopped on the head, and—”

  “Sit down, Cathy.”

  She tossed him an insolent salute and scooted toward the back of the boat. “Hey, wait a minute! There are feathers in here!”

  “Sounds possible.” Michael shrugged. “Fellow who sold me the boat said he used it to ferry chickens back and forth to market. That and an occasional pig or two. If you find a spare creature, hang on to it; we may need it for dinner tonight.”

  Cathy groaned. This from a man who probably had two dozen freshly starched and ironed white button-down shirts hanging in his closet at all times! She gingerly moved the toe of her sneaker around the bottom of the hollow.

  Ignoring her, Michael leaned across to the dock, the muscles flexing in his arms, shoulders, and back, and untied the frayed rope. With a paddle he pushed them off, and maneuvered them toward open water. And then, grinning as if nothing gave him such pleasure, he sent the mainsail climbing to the head of the mast and let the wind take them. The little boat skidded across the tops of the waves, and the land fell away behind them.

  “Bye,” Cathy called forlornly to no one in particular. An egret lifted its head and then flapped on to a quieter cove. Cathy wished she had wings.

  “Isn’t this great?” Michael called over his shoulder, his grin flashing bright as the sun on the water. She had never seen anyone look so busy—and so happy—at the same time.

  It made her feel downright ornery. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Positive. I’ve been sailing since I was eight.”

  “Hmmph. And you’re sure you know where we’re going?”

  “South by southwest. An easy sail, they said.”

  “Who’s ‘they’? The chicken man?” she scoffed.

  “Want to steer?” He was feeling too damn happy to fight. Instead, he let go of the tiller and folded his arms loosely across his bare chest.

  The little sailboat dipped sharply to port.

  “No!” Cathy yelped. “You’re doing fine. Great. Perfect!”

  “Good. Then sit back and relax, keep low, and duck when I say duck.” He winked. “And have a nice day.” His laughter rolled out across the water, easy and clear as a river tumbling over rocks. Even his body looked different: muscles stretched and eager, skin bronzed and glistening with sweat, every move sure and quick and agile.

  Cathy squinted at him. What was different? What had changed?

  And then, as he leaned back, drenched with sunlight, grinning to himself as he trimmed the sail, she saw what it was: the tension was gone. The walls were down, the mask put away. He was having fun.

  It was like seeing him for the first time, and for a moment it took her breath away. She wanted to say something, tell him how glad she was that he was happy, tell him how sexy he was when he laughed like that, tell him—heck, she wanted to kiss him! But she was too scared to move.

  So she sat and watched him all afternoon, ducking when he told her to duck, trailing one hand in the water, and finally relaxing enough to hold the tiller for a few minutes at a time.

  “How about something to eat?” Michael asked, digging into the basket the chicken man’s wife had packed as part of the deal. “We’ve got conch fritters, ‘corned’ fish, plenty of fruit?”

  “You take the tiller back and I’ll take a banana, or some watermelon.”

  She waited for him to get a firm grip on the tiller before she started to edge away, but he grabbed her around the waist with one hand, pulled her down on his lap, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  She broke away, flushed and laughing. “What was that for?”

  “ ’Cause I feel so damn good!”

  “Well, you look damn good.”

  He tipped his head, his eyes shining with pleasure. “Well, thank you, ma’am!” And again his laughter boomed out over the quiet sea. “You look pretty good yourself.” He winked. “Come ’ere.”

  “No way!” She laughed, settling herself back in her comfortable spot and fishing a banana out of the basket. “Save it,
Mr. Winters. Get us to land and I’ll consider your offer. Hmmm, would that be considered a hostile takeover?” she teased, one brow climbing mischieviously into her curly bangs.

  “I’d rather think of it as a friendly merger, Ms. Stephenson.”

  In late afternoon the wind picked up and a dark line appeared on the horizon.

  “Is that land?” Cathy asked hopefully, holding on with both hands.

  “Afraid not, Indiana.” Michael shaded his eyes with the flat of one hand. “Looks like a squall.” He paused. “Heading our way …” he added, more to himself than to her. He looked around, judging distance, time, speed, and direction.

  In seconds the rain clouds had raced toward them through an otherwise blue sky.

  “Look, I’m going to turn east and try to outrun it, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  She gasped. “Thanks a lot. That makes me feel much better.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?”

  “Of course I would! Lie or save me—that’s your choice!” Her voice was rising like the wind, and panic beat in her chest. Wide-eyed, she watched the approaching curtain of rain. “Oh, Michael! What’s going to happen?”

  “We’re going to get very wet, very soon, darlin’. I’m going to lower the sail. So just hold on, don’t panic, it won’t last long—”

  His last words were blown away by the storm. In a matter of seconds she was soaked to the skin: shirt, shorts, hair, sneakers, all dripping water. The only blessing was that she couldn’t see a thing, she could only hear the waves leaping and roaring around her. She held on. Eyes closed, mouth closed, chin tucked into her shoulders, she held on and prayed. Feathers floated around her ankles. The picnic basket tipped and bobbed. The boat jumped like a rodeo bronc.

  And then the squall blew away. In the space of five minutes they had sailed into it and out of it, and once again the sky ahead was crystal blue, the water smoothing to ruffled silk. Cathy blinked twice, afraid to let go, afraid to move.

  “Are you all right?” Michael asked.

  Cathy heard the excitement in his voice. “No,” she cried. “I’m not all right! I’m soaked, scared, bumped and bruised, hysterical—and if you don’t stop grinning at me, I’m going to rip your head off!”

  “Glad you’re fine. Now, help me untangle the rigging and we’ll get the sail back up.” He was already hunkered down among the rope and cotton, the water dripping out of his thick dark hair and down his neck and back.

  Cathy scowled, unnoticed, then swiped at a rivulet of rainwater running down her cheek. Oh, well, just another adventure in the continuing saga of Cathy and Michael. She pictured it just that way. Disaster headlines. With a loud, sincere groan she knelt down in three inches of water and helped unknot the rigging.

  They shouldn’t have bothered. Ten minutes after the squall passed, the wind died.

  “Michael?” Cathy whispered, hushed by the stillness all around. “What happened now?”

  “Trade wind’s gone. It does that now and then at these latitudes.”

  “Then how do you sail a sailboat?” she asked, staring up at the limp white cotton.

  Michael ducked his head and bit back his grin. “You don’t, dear one.”

  “What do you do?” Fear made her persistent.

  “You wait.”

  “Oh.”

  She lasted about ten seconds.

  “Michael, we must be able to do something.”

  He shrugged. After a few minutes he reached for a hunk of watermelon and bit in, then spit the seeds out, one at a time, each one farther into the ocean, aiming carefully.

  “That’s a great talent, Michael, and one that’s sure to stand us in good stead at some future date. But can’t you think of anything that might help now?”

  He laughed softly, reached a hand into the water, and flicked a few drops at her. “Relax, Indiana!”

  “I don’t want to relax!”

  He handed her the paddle.

  Glaring at him, Cathy yanked it out of his hands and started to paddle furiously. She paddled on one side, then the other, hard, digging the flat blade into the still, clear water. The sweat ran down her back and between her breasts. She panted with effort. Her ears rang. And nothing moved. They could have been glued onto this piece of blue sea, under this piece of blue sky.

  “Are we getting anywhere?” Cathy asked.

  “Hard to tell,” Michael answered gently. “It’s a big ocean and a little paddle.”

  “Oh, and you’re just going to sit there with your hands folded behind your head, showing off your chest, while I try to save us?”

  “The wind’ll come back, Cathy. Until then you might as well take it easy—”

  “I can’t take it easy. I’m scared! It’s already late afternoon”—she pointed at the sun on its downward arc—“and if I get stuck out here in the dark, I’m going to go crazy. Please, do something, Michael.”

  “Okay, okay,” he whispered, calming her with a touch. “Here. Give me the paddle. Put on this hat and lean back, and I’ll give it a try.” He waited to see her follow orders, then knelt at the front of the boat and began paddling with a firm, steady stroke.

  “Thank you,” Cathy whispered to his broad back.

  “My pleasure.” He shook his dark head. Cathy was the most impatient, exasperating woman he’d ever met. And the most wonderful.

  He paddled for a very long time.

  Without landmarks or buoys or anything but water and shy all around, there was no way to know if they were even moving. Thinking of the strong, invisible currents in the water beneath them, Cathy was sure they were moving backward, farther and farther out to sea. Her heart hopped around like a rabbit in a cage.

  “Michael,” she called.

  “What, hon?”

  That sounded so safe and homey. “Nothing. I just wanted to check.… We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

  He turned to face her, the sweat pouring into his eyes and down his bare chest, his grin steady as the beam in a lighthouse. “You bet. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Indiana.”

  In the gathering dusk she smiled. “Thanks, pal.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled back at her.

  She felt a tickle on the back of her neck, and brushed at it absently with one hand. And then the tickle turned into a breath, and her hair lifted off the nape of her neck, and there it was: the wind. Back again. The trade wind began to blow and the sail flapped, and Michael gave a shout of victory and the catboat came back to life.

  “Michael, we’re moving!”

  “What do you call my hours of slaving with that damn paddle?” He laughed, leaning far back and using his whole weight to turn the boat into the wind. “Duck!” he shouted, and swung the boom over her head. The sail filled and little boat skimmed happily over the water, fanned into whitecaps again by the wind.

  Cathy laughed and waved her hat and then ate a fritter to celebrate.

  They sailed on into the dark.

  Michael knew they’d missed Little George Cay, but he kept the boat headed southwest, hoping for another island, telling jokes, and singing to pass the time. He had a rich, pleasing baritone, and the first time he broke into song, Cathy stared at him in delighted surprise, then joined in on the chorus of ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’ Unfortunately, other than that and a few obscene ditties, he seemed to know only Christmas carols. After the third go-round of “Jingle Bells,” she couldn’t sing she was laughing so hard.

  Later she dozed off, arms crossed over the picnic basket, head pillowed on her arms. The wind was blowing steadily, the ship rocking gently as it sailed on, the breeze warm as a blanket. Michael watched her sleep, a smile curving his lips. He was exhausted, but somewhere in his chest, about heart high, there was a warm bloom of happiness.

  He sailed all night. After a while his arms and back ached, his hands were bruised and sore from the paddling. Each touch of the tiller sent pain shooting up to his shoulders. His eyes felt like dry
stones in his head. He wanted a cup of water so badly he could taste it … but not badly enough to disturb Cathy’s sleep. Cathy. Just looking at her made him ache in ways that had nothing to do with paddling. Curly brown hair, round cheeks, the curve of her breasts to the arch of her foot, everything about her stirred him in strange unexpected ways. Name it, he thought to himself, but he shied away from the thought. Would not say it, even to himself. But the feeling grew and grew, as if to mock his reticence. Cathy, Cathy …

  He must have fallen asleep, because the tiller slapped at his hand, the boat dipped to starboard. “What?” His eyes snapped open. But tiredness sat on him like a dead weight. Looking up at the starry sky, he judged it to be about four in the morning.

  “Michael?” Cathy called. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he answered automatically, but then the exhaustion pressed in behind his eyes. “Listen, do you think you could take over for just a little while. An hour maybe?”

  She wanted to say no in the worst way—the words almost jumped out of her mouth. But she had heard the strange, weary edge in his voice and could see the hunched outline of his shoulders in the dark. He must be dead tired, she knew, or he would not have asked.

  So she said yes. “Just show me what to do.”

  He showed her how to hold the tiller, how to keep steady with the wind, nothing fancy, just enough to keep them heading in the right direction. “See that star?” he asked, pointing. “Just keep it straight ahead. And I’ll be right here. Okay?”

  “Sure.” She nodded fast and wrapped her hand around the tiller.

  Michael was asleep almost before he sat down.

  In a minute Cathy’s knuckles were white with strain, but she kept her eyes glued to the star ahead. She could not remember when she had felt this scared. No! To tell the truth, she could remember a number of times, all since that evening when she had first seen Michael!

  Oh, Michael. She shook her head, confused. She didn’t know whether to pray for rescue or cherish every shipwrecked second. That man, that gorgeous, irresistible, unpredictable man. That rat! Sleeping while she tried to steer this tiny, waterlogged little boat through the whole damn Atlantic Ocean, following a star! What was he doing sleeping at a time like this? What time was it anyway? Where was the star? Oh! She sighed with relief, there it was, straight ahead.…