It was a fever. It rose and fell like delirium, interrupting the most casual talk, the most innocent act. Everything was erotic. The way he walked. The way she smiled. The swell of his muscles. The curve of her breasts.
After the first few days she gave up wearing her top and grew almost as dark as he was. Even her breasts tanned, the nipples changing from rose to plum. And he nibbled at them like some sweet fruit, driving her mad.
“The morning’s the best,” she murmured, waking in the circle of his arms, the stars just fading above them, the sea glowing like some huge pale lantern at the edge of the world.
Then it was noon, the hot sun baking the sand, their skin salty, their hair salty, their bodies glowing with lovemaking, and the cool sea waiting. “No …” She laughed, “Noon is best.”
At dusk they sat with hips, sides, shoulders touching and watched the sun go down behind their island, and the sea gather the darkness like skirts into her lap. Cathy’s heart would ache with joy, the joy of such beauty and this man she loved to share it. “Evening’s best!”
And then there were the nights!
Each day was perfect, and she never thought beyond that perfect day.
Then one evening they saw a yacht out on the horizon. It was a tiny white shape, close enough for rescue.
“A fire!” Cathy yelled, and Michael was already up, tossing sticks and brush into a pile, fumbling in his pocket for the matches.
“Here!” He tossed her the tin as he dashed for wood.
“Okay!” Her heart was pounding. She pulled open the tin, took out one match, struck it. Then she stopped. Her hands started to shake. She stood there frozen, watching the white yacht edge along the distant horizon. Farther and farther away. Almost gone. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “Michael, what should I do?” But he wasn’t there to answer.
She blinked, counted out ten matches, tucked them in the waistband of her shorts, and tossed the rest into the surf.
“Oh, no!” she gasped, watching them get swept away.
“What’s the matter?” He ran up, spun her around so he could see her face. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head, her face sad. “I dropped them … in the water … the matches,” she cried.
He looked over her head. The yacht had vanished. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “It’s all right. Don’t cry, Cathy, it’s all right.”
She could not explain what she had done, or why. She felt like a cheat, a liar. He believed her ploy, and she didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth. All evening she sat there, stiff and miserable, until he, trying to comfort her, pulled her close, hugging and nuzzling.
“It’s all right, Cathy,” he promised. “There’ll be another ship. Or we can start out tomorrow and look for a cay with people, a phone. I’m sorry, dear one, so sorry. I didn’t know how much you wanted to be rescued. I was thinking only of myself.” He paused, his voice gone suddenly husky. “I was thinking only of how happy I am.”
She jumped into his lap, knocking him flat on his back in the sand, laughing and crying so that she knew he must think she was crazy. But she didn’t care. “Michael, oh, Michael, I love you! I love you so much.” She kissed his mouth and his beard, the hollow of his throat, his chest.
“Good, great!” He laughed, startled into an arousal so strong it made his toes curl. “And whatever caused this sudden lust, I bless it. Yes—” He pulled her down tight against his warm, hard body and pulled off her shorts.
Ten little matches scattered on the sand.
“What the hell?”
“I couldn’t help it,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I needed one more night with you here … alone. I couldn’t bear for it to end.”
He gave a whoop of happiness and hugged her tight. “I’m glad, so glad, Cathy!” He tugged his fingers through her hair, slid them lovingly down the slope of her back. “And I have a confession to make too.”
Instantly curious, she tipped her head to one side. “What?”
“Remember the day the kids turned your bra into a slingshot? Well … there was a phone on that island.”
Frowning, she counted the days back in her head. “But that was over a week ago! Way back at the start—”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t use it? Not even to call the office? Not even for business?”
The grin that was tugging at the corner of his mouth climbed to his blue eyes. “Not even for business, Cathy.”
“Then I think you acted quite nobly, and in our mutual best interest.” She smiled, opening her arms. “Come get your reward, Winters.”
When she came back from shell collecting down near her favorite little cove the following afternoon, she found him sitting on the sand, hands wrapped around his knees, looking out to sea. It was unusual to find him so still, so still and serious-looking, and she stopped in her tracks. But she knew what he was thinking. She had been doing the same thinking down at the cove.
Seeing the yacht yesterday had brought the world back, if only to the edge of their horizon. Now they could no longer be content with their perfect days, but had to think of uncertain tomorrows. Should they light a signal fire? Should they sail to the next cay? Were people worried about them, looking for them? Did they have more to think about than just their own pleasure?
She stomped along the sand, troubled by her thoughts.
“Hi.” Michael gave her a lopsided grin.
She came to a stop behind him. Dropping her treasures in his lap, she knelt and kissed the top of his head, burying her face in his thick dark hair. How much longer could this last?
“Hi, yourself.” She wrapped her arms around him, locking her hands together over his chest. She could feel his heart beating.
“Don’t think about everything, Michael. Not now. Just make love to me.”
“My pleasure.” He laughed, pulling her down over his shoulder and cuddling her in his lap. His hands traced the now-familiar curves and valleys of her body, teasing, adoring, drawing pleasure in their wake.
Her mouth drank his kisses and gave hungry ones back.
Their bodies melted together, becoming one until she couldn’t tell where her flesh ended and his began.
“How can this just keep getting better and better?” she gasped, nipping at his lower lip with sharp little teeth.
“Practice makes perfect!” he murmured, his words strangled by passion.
When the gust settled into a light breeze, and they were both half sane again, they swam over to the cove and went fishing.
“These days were wonderful,” Cathy said, standing quietly thigh-deep in the crystal-clear water. She looked up at him and gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you for these days, Michael. For the freedom, the adventure, for teaching me how to fish.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied just as seriously. “You’re a good student.”
“Thank you.”
“And a good friend.” He said it softly and it carried a secret meaning, a meaning she completely and totally understood.
“You too,” she whispered.
His eyes locked on her face. And then he grinned. “And a good lover.”
“A great lover.” She grinned back.
“A great lover,” he agreed, splashing her.
“Yes, and a good fisherman!” She laughed, splashing him back.
“Good fishermen don’t splash.” He leapt across the waves at her like a kid, drenching her with a huge splash as he landed in a belly flop. The fish streaked away like underwater bullets.
“Oops.” He shrugged. “Fruit for lunch.”
“You know, Michael, Gap wouldn’t believe this if she saw me,” Cathy mused. She had just shimmied down a palm trunk with two fresh coconuts.
“But she’d approve?”
“Oh, yes! She’d love it. And she would love you too.”
“Will she?” he asked, carefully changing tense.
“Yes, she will.” Cathy nodded. “She will.”
Tha
t night they lit the fire with the second out of the nine matches left. There was a good strong breeze off the ocean, and the sand flies had disappeared. The sky was polka-dotted with stars, and everything was perfect.
“Reminds me of nights out on the cape,” Michael said, looking out to sea.
“I’ve never been there,” Cathy answered softly. “Is it beautiful?”
“Yes. It used to be even more so, before all the tourists. But my folks have fifty-five acres overlooking the sound, and that’s still lovely.” He turned his dark head, his eyes seeking hers. “You’ll like it.”
She nodded, feeling like a little hand had tightened around her heart. “Will I?” She smiled brightly.
“Yes,” he assured her.
“Great!”
“Do you like modern art?” he asked as they strolled hand in hand along the pink sand at dawn.
The question did not surprise her. She understood. “Some. I like Rothko. And Frank Stella. But I love the Impressionists. I’m mad about Degas, Monet, Cézanne, Van Gogh … and Mary Cassatt. I love her women in their white dresses, all that light—”
“Andy Warhol?”
“Okay.”
“Motherwell?” he paused. “I have a Motherwell hanging over the stairwell in my New York apartment.”
“Well, I’m not sure about Motherwell.” She paused. “I could let you know.”
“Good.”
“Do you eat pasta?” Cathy asked as they nibbled away at some roasted crawfish.
“I like pasta.” He shrugged. “Cannelloni. Ravioli if it’s homemade, especially with feta cheese.”
“Oh.” She made a face he did not see. “Sounds interesting.”
“It’s good. But I love Oriental food.”
“Yes,” she agreed happily, “me too. Chinese. Spareribs and egg rolls, wonton soup—”
“That’s okay.” He waved it away. “But have you ever eaten Szechuan? Thai? Vietnamese?”
“Vietnamese?” she repeated in disbelief.
“Great stuff! Especially the soups. They even prepare what they call dry soups. Delicious.”
“Sounds … wonderful,” she answered skeptically. “How do you feel about cheeseburgers?”
“Never touch beef.”
“Oh, of course,” she said. “Silly me.”
The next morning she was shoulder-deep in the waves, washing her hair and singing, “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair,” at the top of her voice as Michael swam laps nearby.
“You are beautiful,” he said, floating by.
“Thank you, sir,” she sang, feeling beautiful and very turned on. The sight of his hard, bronze body flashing through the waves always did that to her. Every time. There was something about the broad shoulders, the dark thick hair, the wide, curved bands of muscle across his chest and shoulders. With each stroke the muscles bunched and hardened, then stretched and smoothed. It was hypnotizing, the rhythm of his body. On this next lap she would just reach out and touch his chest, his flank, his thigh.…
She did, and he veered toward her, dove, and caught her around the legs, lifting her clear out of the water as he surfaced.
“Stop! Put me down! Michael—”
He slid her slowly down the front of his body, slowly, holding her tight against him. By the time her toes touched sand, she was panting with arousal. “Michael, Michael,” she whispered, her mouth searching hungrily for his lips, his tongue.
“Oh, I am glad you love this as much as I do!” He gave a deep, husky laugh and carried her, legs wrapped around his hips, out of the water and up onto dry sand.
“By the way,” he asked later, drawing a hand lazily up the inside of her thigh, “do you like dogs?”
“Cats,” she answered, purring with happiness.
That evening they used the sixth match out of the ten.
Michael lit the fire, put the lobsters on to cook, and then sat on the sand, hugging his knees.
Cathy came over and sat beside him, one arm draped over his bare broad shoulders, her cheek pressed against his warm skin.
“You know,” he said reluctantly, finally putting into words everything she had been thinking for the past few days. “We’re going to have to leave.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, keeping his head down. “We haven’t got much water left. And only four matches—”
“I know.” She nodded sadly. “I am so sorry. I should have kept twelve … fifteen.…”
“It’s not your fault. A few more days, but we would have had to get going sooner or later. Besides, people must be worried … searching. The world beckons.…”
“I don’t want the world. I want only you.”
He grinned and kissed her nose. “And I want only you. That doesn’t have to change.”
“Maybe …” she answered softly. But she heard the “have to.”
“Hey, pal, trust me! Okay?”
She smiled at him, but inside she was uneasy. Trust him? She would trust him with her soul if he’d let her. But he never said anything definite about their future. “Sure. How could I say no to the man who taught me to fish?”
“Right.” He nodded. He was smiling, his handsome face lit by that familiar smile—the smile that warmed her, that had become her sun and moon. But she couldn’t help remembering it was the same smile that sold magazines to millions of single women.
They set sail the next morning.
Cathy had her shells tucked in the bottom of the basket, and she carried the palm-frond fan she had woven to battle the mosquitoes. She wore her shorts and top and in her hair a piece of tortoiseshell Michael had found and carved for her.
Michael looked dark and solid and slightly wild and untamed with his torn shorts and shirt, beard, and bare feet.
They headed southwest again, catching the trade wind in their sail and tacking swiftly through a light chop.
Just before dark they saw an island, a large one, and as they sailed around the southern tip, there were boats, fishermen, and a dock.
“Hello!” Michael called, waving an arm above his head.
“Watch de way, Papa! Watch de way!” an old man, dark-skinned with gray hair, yelled back, swinging an arm out to the left.
At that instant a huge outcropping of coral appeared just beneath the crystal surface of the water on the starboard side.
Michael yelled, “Duck!” swung the boom, and brought the catboat sharply to port.
Amid cheers from the fishermen, they sailed on in toward shore.
“Thanks for the warning,” Michael said as Cathy white-knuckled the edge of the boat.
“No problem! Dat’s one tricky way. Peoples sink out dere all de time. Does make fishing private, though.”
“Well, we don’t want to disturb your fishing, but we sure could use some food, fresh water, a phone.”
“No phone hereabouts, Papa, but food and water we’ve got. Tie up de boat and make your way down de dock.”
Cathy hopped onto the dock as Michael tied up. “Michael,” she whispered when he stepped up next to her, “what are we going to use for money?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet. But don’t worry. Papa’ll take care of everything.”
“Oh, I love that: ‘papa.’ ” She giggled, wrapping her arm around his waist so that their hips bumped playfully as they walked. “Papa!”
The store was a tiny shack filled to the roof with an amazing collection of canned goods, lanterns, lures, shells, and baskets. There did not seem to be anyone there.
“Hello?” Cathy ventured. “Anyone home?”
A young woman appeared in a back window, waved, and came around front. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come up. Dis place don’t get too many visitors.” She smiled shyly, a beautiful welcoming smile.
Cathy smiled back.
Michael got right down to business. “We’ve got a problem,” he said, spreading both hands wide. “We capsized and have no money, but we could sure use some food, water, and directions to an island with a phone.”
“Listen, I have a knife. I could trade you the knife for the food.”
“A man shouldn’t rightly be out on the sea without a good knife. No, you just bring it by some later time. I’m not goin’ anywheres.”
“Thank you,” Michael said. “We will do that.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.” Cathy gave her all she had, a smile, in return.
They slept the night on the beach, but chastely, at far ends of the blanket, aware that there were other people on this island. They had left their own little paradise behind and were heading back to civilization. Even though across the blanket they held hands, Cathy felt the interlude coming to an end.
“It’s pretty here, isn’t it?” Michael said.
Cathy heard the wistfulness in his voice. “Beautiful. We’ve seen a lot of beautiful places.”
“Yes.” he nodded, looking up at the stars. “And there are others. Paris. Lucerne. Melbourne. Hong Kong, in their own way. You’d like them, Cathy.”
“I’m sure I would. The world’s full of beautiful places. I know one about an hour’s ride outside of Bloomington.”
“I bet that’s beautiful too. And Cape Cod. The Maine coast. Nantucket. Even Manhattan, from fifty stories up.”
“How about Manhattan from right down at street level?”
“Well …” He turned his head and winked. “It does have its moments, but I’m not sure beautiful is the adjective I’d choose. Exciting, maybe. Vital. Challenging.”
“That sounds like how you’d describe Michael Winters,” she teased.
He looked at her. His dark brows drew together over cobalt eyes. “Which Michael Winters?” he said softly.
Cathy caught her lip between her teeth, thinking that one over. “Is there more than one?” she asked, watching for his response.
He rolled onto one hip, pillowing his dark head on the crook of one arm, looking at her. He had all his defenses down. No mask. No wall. Just him. “I think so, Cathy. Maybe. I know I’m different now from who I was a short while ago. I’ve been happy here with you.”
The Great American Bachelor Page 12