Remarried in Haste

by Sandra Field

  He didn’t have a clue what birds he was supposed to be seeing today. “I’m not always as aware as I should be,” he rejoined, winking at her as he picked up a slippery slice of papaya in his fingers. “Tell me what else we’re going to find.”

  She was now scowling at him just as Steve had, which didn’t prevent her from rattling off a whole string of names just as Rowan came back from the kitchen with a new platter of papaya. He said craftily, “I’ll sit next to Rowan in the van—I noticed the front had three seats. That way I can pick her brains. Okay, Rowan?”

  Rowan produced a smile that felt more like the toothy grin of a shark than an expression of pleasure. “Lovely,” she lied, “I’ll look forward to that.”

  So half an hour later she was sandwiched in the front seat between the driver and Brant. She felt Brant’s arm go around her shoulders; with anyone other than him she would have assumed this to be a natural enough gesture in the constricted space. As the engine roared into life she muttered, “You sure looked pleased with yourself now you know you’re going back to Toronto.”

  He tweaked the curls on the back of her neck, his fingers lingering on her nape. “I kind of like that haircut... although it took a while to get used to it.”

  “Behave yourself!” she seethed. “Or are you trying to get me sent back to Toronto without a job?”

  They were driving toward the capital city of Castries, the wind blowing through the open window. Brant knew he’d never see the driver again, and in the seat directly behind them Karen and Sheldon were, as usual, wrapped up in each other. He pitched his words for her ears alone. “Tell me something. Did you really want children, Rowan, that last year we were married?”

  The shock ran through her body as though he had struck her, and what had started as a game with Brant suddenly changed into something of far greater significance. Her hands, he saw with a stab of compunction, were clenched in her lap where moments ago they had been- loose; her cheeks had paled.

  To Rowan’s infinite relief a truck roared past them, and then the driver leaned out of the window to shout a greeting to two men on the side of the road. It gave her a moment’s respite to recover from a question that had, in taking her by surprise, stripped her of her defenses. Her brain scurried around various answers, none of them polite, not all of them honest. Opting for at least a partial version of the truth, because Brant would be gone tomorrow, gone from her life forever, Rowan said, “Yes, I wanted children—I told you at the time that I did.”

  With an effort he kept his voice level. “Is that one reason you’re in such an all-fired hurry to find someone else?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What if I told you I’d changed my mind?”

  “If—it’s always conditional with you, Brant. What a neat way that is to avoid commitment!”

  Which, thought Brant, was basically a rephrasing of May’s message, the one he’d been so busy denying ever since he’d got up this morning. He blundered on. “But what if I have changed my mind, and somehow we could work it out with our jobs so we could start a family?”

  Against the arm that lay around her he felt another of those betraying shudders. She grated, “I see precious little evidence of any kind of change in you, and I’m not going to discuss this in a van full of my clients. There’s no need to discuss it. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “That’s negotiable.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word! With you, it’s always been your way or the highway.”

  “I swear I’m not the same man who left for Colombia three years ago. I’m not just talking about having kids—I’m trying to tell you I’ve changed in other ways, as well.”

  “Then why have you been behaving like that man?” she snorted. “Stop this, Brant, I hate it.” Leaning down, she pulled out her bird book. “Look up black finch, St. Lucia oriole, blue-hooded euphonia and gray trembler. That’s what we’re here for. This is a birding trip. Not a workshop for the repair of marriages that are beyond repair.”

  He couldn’t pull her into his arms and kiss her until she yielded: not here. He couldn’t even raise his voice to get his point across. He’d done it again, Brant realized with a sinking in his belly. Spoken without thought, chosen the worst of times and settings. He’d given more consideration to the characters who’d sprung into his imagination last night than he had to his ex-wife this morning. Why the devil did his brain cells dissolve to mush every time he came within six feet of Rowan?

  He’d have to erase that word strategy from his vocabulary.

  But he’d discovered one thing in the last few minutes. Rowan had indeed wanted children. She still did. She just didn’t want him to be the father.

  She’d changed, even if he hadn’t.

  The driver said amiably, “You want me to stop anywhere along the way, Rowan?”

  Thankfully Rowan turned her attention to the map, pushing the backs of her hands against her knees so Brant couldn’t see that her fingers were trembling. Rowan’s trembler, she thought with a desperate attempt at humor, felt him remove his arm from around her shoulders and from the corner of her eye saw him open the bird book.

  By tomorrow morning he’d be gone. Less than twenty-four hours. Surely she could survive one more day. She said calmly, “The only reason we might want to stop is if we pass any ponds, you never know when you’re going to pick up a new shorebird.”

  Her voice sounded like a stranger’s to her own ears, and her palms were clammy. Twenty-four hours couldn’t last forever. Tomorrow, once Brant had gone, she’d be safe.

  Out of danger.

  As they trekked along the trail at the forest reserve Brant was rewarded by sightings of every one of the birds Rowan had mentioned. But even the euphonia, a delightful tittle bird feathered in green and yellow with a sky-blue topknot, didn’t raise his spirits. This was the last day to be with Rowan. Like a knell, the words repeated themselves in his head. The last day, the last day...

  Tomorrow he’d be back in Toronto. As soon as he landed he’d call his boss and see if the Myanmar assignment was still open. The thirty or so groups of rebels fighting it out in the forests of Burma ought to take his mind off one small group of birders on a safe little island in the Caribbean.

  He’d fallen behind on the trail, not wanting the company of the others. Today, to his jaundiced eye the rain forest’s dense growth epitomized nature’s desperate struggle for survival: everything scrambling toward the scanty light by any means possible, like an army of guerrillas. As he came around a grove of graceful bamboo trees with their curved, hollow trunks and feathered leaves, he heard voices raised in anger, echoing his own mood, and stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t deal with Steve and Natalie. Not this morning.

  Then through the thicket of bamboos he heard Rowan say crisply, “I’m going to break one of my own rules here, Natalie, as well as the company’s rules. It’s called sticking my nose into my clients’ private lives. I don’t think you two would keep arguing so much if you didn’t care about each other. For goodness’ sake, get it together!”

  “I don’t—” Natalie began.

  Steve said, “She isn’t—”

  “Shut up!” Rowan snapped. “Go out for dinner tonight away from the rest of us, and figure out what it is you really want from each other and how you’re going to get it. That doesn’t sound too difficult, does it?”

  “He’s a—”

  “She wouldn’t—”

  An edge of desperation in her voice, Rowan interrupted them. “Life’s too short to waste, don’t you see? And love’s not as common as you might suppose—trust me on that one. And now I’m the one who’s going to shut up and not before time...isn’t that a solitaire up there in that cecropia tree?”

  “Oh—where’s my camera?” Natalie exclaimed.

  “Hanging from your shoulder,” Steve said irritably. “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on, Nat.”

  Even through the trees Brant could hear Rowan’s sharp sigh
of frustration. She said, “I’d better go and get Karen, she didn’t see the solitaire very well the other day.”

  Brant stayed where he was. Rowan didn’t know he’d been eavesdropping, he’d swear to it. Was she only trying to repair Steve and Natalie’s relationship because her own marriage was beyond repair? Or was she trying to give them what she wanted for herself?

  All thirty rebel tribes couldn’t be more complicated than one red-haired woman.

  For the rest of the day he watched Rowan like the proverbial hawk. She excelled at a job whose difficulties and problems she smoothed away with tact, knowledge and humor, she conjured birds out of the trees with an ease that amazed him, and she concocted another tasty picnic lunch with a minimum of fuss; she gave Steve and Natalie no more advice; and all day she treated Brant with the same unfailing courtesy with which she treated everyone else. A courtesy that made him feel about two inches tall.

  This time Brant tried to plan in his mind exactly what he wanted to say to her, so he wouldn’t blow it again. His first step, late in the afternoon, was to carry the cooler back to the van. Knowing he was taking a huge step into the unknown, he took Rowan by the wrist as she showed him where to stow the cooler behind the back seat. Stumbling a little, but with patent sincerity, he said, “I have changed, Rowan. I used to look down on your job, you’re right. I’m sorry. More sorry than I can say. I’ll never do that again. Because it’s a very difficult job and you do it superbly.”

  A flash of gratification crossed her face. She stared down at the fingers clasped around her wrist, gulped, “Thank you,” and then tugged herself free. “Steve,” she called over her shoulder, “would you mind holding the scope while we drive? I don’t want it loose in the back.”

  Brant found himself gawking at her back as she walked away from him. Was that it? He’d told her he was sorry and he’d complimented her on her skills, and all she could say was thank you and leave him standing here? Didn’t she understand that he was changing in front of her eyes?

  Didn’t she care?

  The day proceeded, far too quickly for Brant’s liking. Natalie and Steve joined them for dinner, with May sitting between them, her mauve-haired and magisterial presence keeping them in order. Rowan was late and snagged the seat at the opposite end of the table from Brant. As coffee was being poured, the hotel manager brought her a fax; she read it, finished her coffee and disappeared. She didn’t reappear.

  Brant sat himself down at the bar and ordered orange juice. Time was running out. If he was going to get five minutes alone with Rowan, he’d have to do it tonight. Tomorrow morning she’d be too busy for him.

  Which hurt. Hurt almost as much as her determination to ignore how he was doing his level best to change from the man he’d always been, to admit to his mistakes and make reparation.

  More feelings, he thought morosely, and watched Steve sit down on the stool next to him. Under the full moon a small steel band was playing out on the patio, and several couples were dancing. Three young women who were traveling together were sitting at the other end of the bar, laughing among themselves. Steve said, “We should ask them to dance.”

  “Go right ahead,” Brant said.

  “Don’t want to.” Steve signaled to the bartender. “Double rum and Coke,” he said, adding glumly, “Never thought I’d turn down the chance to meet three new broads. They’re not bad-looking, either. Especially the blonde.”

  His gray eyes looked genuinely unhappy. “Still at odds with Natalie?” Brant asked.

  “You said it.” Steve paid for his drink and took a healthy slug. “Do you know what she did a couple of days before we left for Grenada? Asked me to marry her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no. That’s my job—the guy’s supposed to do the asking the way I look at it.” He poked at an ice cube with one finger. “She’s been cranky as a dog with ticks ever since.”

  Brant smothered a grin. “Why didn’t you do the asking?”

  “Oh, man, what I know about marriage you could put on the back of a tick. Like nothing, you know what I mean?” Steve took another big gulp of rum. “You ever been married?”

  “Married and divorced.”

  “Hey, sorry, didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

  “That’s okay.” Brant hesitated fractionally. “Rowan was my wife. We were married for four years.”

  Steve’s head jerked up. “Rowan and you? No kidding?” “No kidding.” She’d kill him for telling. But after tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t be here, would he?

  “Jeez...so that’s why there’s so many vibes between the two of you. Nat picked ’em up, too. But I never figured you’d been married. What happened?”

  “My job takes me all over the world at a moment’s notice. Rowan travels a lot. She wanted kids. I didn’t. Got so we were fighting most of the time we were together.” Brant stirred his juice with a swizzle stick, watching the liquid swirl in the confines of the glass. “I’m starting to realize I’m a Neanderthal when it comes to feelings.”

  “Hey, couldn’t all have been your fault.”

  “Well, Rowan’s got a temper, for sure. As you may have noticed.”

  “Yeah...she doesn’t fool around if she’s got something on her mind.” Steve looked straight at him. “You two going to get it together again?”

  “Don’t think so. I’m going back to Toronto tomorrow.”

  “Quitting?”

  Steve looked so scandalized that Brant had to smile. “It takes two to tango,” he said tritely. “You planning on fixing things up between you and Natalie?”

  “She’s gotta make the first move.”

  “So here we are, two guys sitting alone at the bar,”

  Brant said dryly.

  “Maybe I will ask one of ’em to dance...the blonde’s sort of cute. You coming?”

  Brant shook his head. “I’m too old to be putting the moves on women in a bar,” he said. “Good luck.”

  Steve joined the three women, drinks were ordered all ’round, and Brant left the bar. The last day, he thought. The last day...

  He walked back along the pathway to his room. The moon was hidden behind a cloud, blurring the shadows; the wind scythed through the leaves of the huge breadfruit tree in the center of the compound. His feet carried him past his own doorway to the room at the very end of the block, where Rowan was staying. It was in darkness. He tapped on the glass patio doors, hearing the heavy pound of his heartbeat in his ears.

  Nothing happened. He tapped louder, and again got no response. Peering through the open curtains, he saw that the room was indeed empty. His disappointment was overwhelming; worse, it was laden with fear. What if he didn’t get to see her before tomorrow morning? Then what would he do?

  He marched to the lobby. Rowan wasn’t there, or in the pool. Outside in the bar Steve was dancing with the blonde, holding her a respectable distance away from his body and looking bored to the back teeth. The beach, Brant thought. Rowan loved to swim.

  If she’d gone to some of the bars and little boutiques that lined the road, he’d never find her.

  He went back toward his room, through the shadows trying to find the dirt track that led to the beach. He finally located a winding pathway edged with oleander shrubs: shrubs that were deadly poisonous, he thought with a ripple of his nerves, and started along it. Then through the hiss of wind in the shrubbery he heard the crunch of footsteps coming toward him on the finely ground cinders and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He stood still, waiting.

  The woman who came around the corner, her shoulders brushing against the pink and white blossoms, was Rowan. She gave a gasp of shock when she saw him and he suddenly realized how threatening he must look, a black silhouette blocking the path, his height and breadth magnified by the shadows. He said quickly, “Rowan, it’s me—Brant.”

  “B-Brant?” she quavered.

  “I was looking for you, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Looking for me?”
>
  “Yeah.” Although he longed to approach her, he held his ground, all his senses on alert. “Are you okay?” he said uncertainly.

  She walked right up to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned all her weight on him, her head tucked under his chin, the softness of her breasts jammed against his chest. Her hair was wet; she’d obviously been swimming. With another of those judders along his nerves, Brant realized she was weeping, quietly and copiously, her tears soaking through his shirt. He put one arm around her and with his other hand lifted her face.

  The moon had reappeared. In its blank white light he saw blood streaking the curve of her cheekbone. He said sharply, “Rowan—what happened?”

  “I—I fell. Tripped over the curb on the way back from the beach. Oh Brant, d-don’t go...”

  “I’m not going anywhere—I’ll take you back to your room.” He held her away, running his eyes down her body; she was wearing a baggy T-shirt over a pair of shorts. “Sweetheart, your knees...”

  “I don’t mean now,” she wailed, scrubbing at her wet cheeks and spreading more blood over her nose. “Don’t go to Toronto, that’s what I m-mean.”

  Every muscle in Brant’s body went rigid. “Do you really mean that?”

  “Just don’t go! Please don’t go...”

  “If you don’t want me to go to Toronto, I won’t. I promise,” he said forcefully. “Let me see your hands, Rowan.”

  Obediently she held out her palms, which were grazed and scored with dirt and blood. With a wordless exclamation Brant picked her up, holding her against his chest, and heard her falter, “Were you really looking for me?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t bear to leave tomorrow without one more of my jackassed attempts at reconciliation. And don’t tell me I’m like a bull in a china shop when it comes to communication, I’ve been doing enough of a number on myself the last couple of days and yeah, I know I’m spouting clichés.”

  She said, the faintest thread of laughter in her voice, “In Martinique they have these huge white bulls with long horns. One of those loose in a china shop would be a sight to behold.”