Coming To Terms

by Patricia Watters

  For a few moments Andrea said nothing, the sight of Jerry in a shirt that hugged a pair of broad shoulders and a muscular chest about taking her breath away. This was Jerry, the man who'd fathered her children and who, until moments before, she'd thought she hated with as much passion as she'd once loved him. For a man in his late forties he really was kind of a hunk. Funny, she hadn't noticed that in years. Yet, nothing had changed, not really.

  "Like I said, batik’s all they had," Jerry grumbled, presuming she was displeased when he found her staring at him.

  "It's fine," Andrea said. "Whatever you bought will be better than that." She felt her nostrils flare and her jaws tighten as she indicated the clothes hanging on the hooks.

  "You've got that right," Jerry clipped.

  Andrea felt miffed again, her appreciation of Jerry's middle-aged good looks of moments before an anomaly. She took the first bag and pulled out a pair of batik slacks in shades of golds, deep reds and browns, and a matching batik shirt. Searching further, she pulled out a batik sundress in a tropical print in shades of dark and light blues, intermingled with varying shades of greens. The dress was striking in its simplicity, its patterns and colors reminding her of the coolness of a tropical forest. It was also modest in style, with t front cut high and cap sleeves, and she wondered if Jerry selected it to make a statement. She could still hear the caustic edge to his voice when she'd worn the green and tan sundress that once drove him to distraction.

  Now it makes you look like a middle-aged hooker.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe a woman in her forties should dress conservatively, and the batik sundress was truly beautiful. "I love it," she said, and smiled at Jerry.

  A little glint of pleasure came into his eyes. Then he shrugged, and said, "There wasn't much to choose from. Go ahead, look at the rest."

  Andrea reached for another bag and pulled out a pair of tan flip-flops and a swim suit, also batik, also modest. She looked at Jerry and waited for an explanation. Although she swam in her parents pool when she stayed there, the last time she'd gone swimming with Jerry had been years ago at the lake house, after the kids had gone to bed. Skinny dipping to be exact, although the evening hadn't started that way, but the lure of the water and the shallow sandy lake bottom near the boat house had been an invitation, and the moonlit night with the sound of crickets and tree frogs to accompany their underwater dance of love had been close to being in paradise. She could sense Jerry remembering that night, and wondered if old memories were surfacing.

  He looked at her, thoughtfully. "I figured we might as well go snorkeling since we're stuck here. We can rent equipment at the resort."

  "I suppose." Andrea stuffed the suit back into the bag.

  Tucked inside another bag were sets of ladies underwear—soft, cotton, some in hot fiery colors, others in shades of blues, each set as brief as underwear could be.

  Unspoken words and distant memories hovered between them like ghosts from the past, of times when Jerry surprised her with something sexy, something she'd model for him in a way that said to him, "You're my man, and I'm your woman, and let's do what God designed us to do," or she'd be feeling playful and say something like, "I love it, baby, but it covers the places that need attention right now…"

  "Like I said, there wasn't much to choose from." Jerry turned to look at her medical chart beside the bed.

  "The clothes are fine. Thank you." Andrea returned the underwear to the bag.

  "I booked us at Finnegan's Hideaway," Jerry mused, while scanning the doctor's notes. "It has bungalows and a lodge with bedroom suites overlooking the water. I reserved two bungalows." His statement underscored the fact that the divorce was still on and she wasn't to make anything of the fact that he'd bought her clothes that included several sets of scanty underwear. "The bungalows are on the beach," he continued. "I figured we might as well stay near the water while we're here."

  "Yes, I suppose." Andrea felt an odd sense of disappointment that things could not be as they'd once been. Here they were, alone in a tropical paradise with miles of pristine beaches, almost uninhabited from what she'd seen as the ship cruised along Andros Island before docking in Andros Town. With warm, crystal-clear waters with coral reefs for snorkeling and exploring, and little private coves with pink sandy beaches, a couple would be free to make love undisturbed beneath a warm Bahamian sun.

  "I rented a car. I'll be in the waiting room while you dress," Jerry said, then left.

  In the past he would have helped her take off the hospital gown, and maybe kissed her on the cheek when he draped her batik shirt around her shoulders and tell her he loved her, and she would have slipped her arms around his neck and told him she loved him too.

  The doctor came in shortly after Jerry left, told Andrea she was free to do whatever she felt like doing, and warned her to drink only bottled water and make sure the food she ate was well-cooked. He discharged her with his assurance that the results of the blood test would be forwarded to her primary care physician in Myrtle Beach.

  Andrea dressed in the batik sundress and flip-flops and found Jerry standing in the waiting room. The drive to Finnegan's Hideaway was in dead silence, and as Andrea stared out the window of the rental car, she wondered again how they'd break the news of the divorce to the girls. Nothing worked out the way she wanted, not even having a little shipboard romance. It was hell being middle-aged, on the verge of a divorce, and exactly what Jerry pointed out.

  You might ask yourself if Alessandro Cavallaro would have given you a second glance if he'd passed you in a grocery aisle.

  That pretty much summed it up. Even Jerry didn't want to see her in the low-cut sundress any more.

  "How do you feel?" he asked, breaking the silence.

  It was the first time he'd inquired about her directly since she'd been brought to the medical facility, and Andrea wasn't sure whether he was talking to cut the awkward silence, or because he was genuinely concerned. "Actually, I feel like going snorkeling," she said, although she hadn't considered it until that moment, but the idea of a warm tropical sea caressing her body was appealing. The idea of anything caressing her body was appealing, she realized, and wondered when it started to matter. Not sex. Middle-aged women weren't so hung up on that as younger women were, just something stroking her skin. A soft breeze as she lay on the beach in her swim suit, the warm waters of the Straits of Florida washing over her. Jerry's hands massaging her sore muscles the way he used to. But mostly, she missed the quiet times after their last goodnight kiss, when they lay cuddled together while drifting off to sleep.

  "I'll drop you off at your bungalow and see about renting the equipment," Jerry said.

  The bungalow was a lovely little place with a tropical motif throughout that included batik curtains and bedspread, red tile floors with a soft sheen, and an efficiency kitchen with tile countertops. Across the front, a deck looked out onto a panorama of tiny bays, rocky inlets, and sand dunes with sea grass, spider lilies, and seagrape, and beyond the pink-sand beach stretched an endless turquoise sea. There were other bungalows on the beach, but each was separated by clumps of palm and pine trees laced with mangrove, offering complete privacy for those wanting to lay in the sun, away from unwelcome eyes.

  She had no idea where Jerry's bungalow was. He dropped her off at the trail leading to her place and went to the lodge to rent the snorkeling equipment, but it made no difference because after they'd return from snorkeling, they'd go their separate ways.

  While waiting for Jerry to come for her, she changed into the batik swim suit he got her, a one-piece suit made from a stretchy material. Wide straps held the front modestly high. Still, the suit clung like a batik tattoo. She looked at her legs, long, slender and firm, thanks to liposuction. She hadn't intended to have it done when she called to inquire about it, but after four months of working out at a fitness center in Myrtle Beach, and seeing women in their prime, sleek and firm and flat-bellied, she found herself making an appointment, and while Jerry was awa
y with his crew cleaning up an oil slick, she had it done.

  She was pleased her belly was reasonably flat, thanks to a daily regimen of sit-ups, and the rest of her wasn't too bad for a woman her age. Certainly better than most of her friends. She turned sideways to the mirror, satisfied that what she had was adequate without silicone.

  When Jerry arrived, he knocked, which surprised her. After twenty-five years she'd expected him to walk in. He stood on the porch in his batik swim suit, his shirt open down the front, and snorkel tubes, face masks and long red swim fins in his hands. She noted that his swim suit was also made from the same stretchy material as hers, and she couldn't keep from admiring Jerry's flat belly and narrow hips. She shifted her focus to his waxed chest. It bothered her that the matt of hair was gone, and along with it, her snuggly huggy bear, as she'd called him.

  "It's growing out," Jerry grumbled. His gaze wandered down the length of her, making her flesh tingle with his close perusal.

  "The suit's fine," she said, trying not to react to his visual inspection, but she couldn't stop the warmth creeping up her face. Nor could she stem the desire building inside with his close scrutiny. Then his face hardened, and he said in a curt tone, "Let's get going." He turned and headed for the beach.

  Andrea walked beside him. "We don't have to do this. You seem irritated."

  "Yeah, well, it's been a long dry spell. It makes a man irritable."

  Andrea knew at once that for whatever the reason, Val had not had her way with Jerry. Maybe it was like he said, he wasn't interested in a woman half his age. "Maybe snorkeling will take your mind off, well, it," she said.

  "The only thing that'll take my mind off it would be a shark coming along and taking it with him." He walked toward a drift log in an alcove off the beach and tossed the snorkeling equipment on the sand.

  Andrea reached for a snorkeling mask, then sat on the drift log and positioned the mask over her face. "It's been years since I snorkeled," she said, while peering at Jerry through the wide, round glass.

  "It'll come back." Jerry crouched in front of her and placed his hands around her mask, and said, "Don't press it so hard against your face. There should be no gaps between the skirt and your skin." He adjusted it slightly. "Now, inhale. If the mask stays in place, it's the right fit."

  Andrea filled her lungs with air. "It's okay," she said, though she was finding it difficult to breathe with Jerry so close. She also noticed his well-muscled chest, the chest of a man who'd been working out. Odd she hadn't noticed it before the cruise, though there had been little chance. What sex they'd had in the past two years had been regimental.

  Jerry reached for a fin. "I got the ones that cover the foot instead of open-back fins," he said, his eyes focused on her leg. "Give me your foot."

  Andrea stretched out her leg, and Jerry wrapped his palm around her ankle and slipped the fin onto her foot. "It's supposed to fit comfortably, not too tight and not too loose." His palm remained on her ankle for a moment before he removed it and closed it around the other ankle to slip on the other fin. Andrea knew there was no logical reason for Jerry to be putting her swim fins on her feet, or to be holding her ankle, but she didn't stop him because she wanted him to do what he was doing, and more, which was both confusing and disconcerting.

  Jerry's thumb glided over her ankle bone and his palm moved up her calf as he said, in a contemplative voice, "The man said if you snorkel over a small hole that has a lot of empty shells around it, look in the hole for an octopus." He stared at her leg for a few moments, then removed his hand and stood.

  When Andrea looked up at him, and saw the full length of a man she'd once loved with a passion that seemed to keep her on a constant high when he was around, not only for his sense of humor, but for those quiet times when he was serious. She remembered the first time he told her he loved her. It was in a roundabout way. "Love makes you vulnerable," he'd said. "It opens your chest and allows someone to get inside and mess you up. It starts with a kiss or a smile and your life isn't yours anymore. But it can also hurt, like a glass splinter working its way into your heart." That's what she felt now, and she wondered if Jerry felt it too.

  Yet, nothing had changed. Not really. Once back in Myrtle Beach they'd fall into their old pattern of sniping at each other, and the TV would blare, and she'd want to throw the thing out the window, and Jerry would resent her for going to their bedroom suite and tapping away at her laptop, and in the unspoken words that never surfaced would be Scott's death, always hovering between them, as if Scott were pointing a finger at them, accusing them for giving him a car he couldn't resist racing, and letting him go to a party where there would be drinking. But neither the TV, nor her laptop, nor Scott's ghost were there right now. It was only the sand, the sea, the surf, and her and Jerry. Surely for one afternoon in the Bahamas, they could put things to rest. Put Scott to rest.

  Jerry shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it across the drift log. Positioning the mask and snorkel over his face, he said, while looking down at her, "Before you dive, hold your nose and blow in order to equalize your ears. Are you ready?"

  "I guess." Andrea stood up on the fins. For a few moments Jerry looked her over, but his eyes were not on the snorkeling equipment, and where his gaze focused intensified her desire for him. She hated that Jerry seemed angry when he looked at her. That wasn't the way it had been. Always, in past years, he'd looked at her with love and appreciation, and the expression on his face had been one of pure pleasure.

  Jerry turned and started toward the water, and Andrea flip-flopped across the sandy beach a few steps behind him, eyes focused on his broad shoulders, muscular back, and trim firm butt, a body still lean and sinewy, still making her feel things even after all that had come between them. But soon the turquoise water lapping against the bright pink sand beckoned.

  Jerry started into the water, and when it was hip deep, he lowered himself, face down, and floated, his brawny back glistening beneath the afternoon sun, like a giant fish that had come up from the depths. Andrea too immersed in the water, face down, and slowly kicked her legs.

  The water was warm, the visibility amazing, like swimming in an exploding prism of color. Kelp swaying, jellyfish propelling themselves by, sea turtles paddling around. Words failed to describe the exquisiteness and the allure of the exotic marine life. She watched an eagle ray cruise by, and saw an upside-down jelly fish. She was peering inside a pipe at a spider crab when Jerry took her arm and pulled her toward a coral reef where starfish, sea urchins and sea cucumbers swayed with the current. He pointed to a flounder lying flat in the sand, then picked up a sea star and handed it to her. She took it and it stiffened into a tight outer shell. She looked at Jerry and smiled, but he didn't smile back.

  Yeah, well, it's been a long dry spell. Too true.

  She lost track of how long they floated in the surf, but by the time they left the water the sun had moved lower in the sky and the incoming tide was washing into the private alcove where the drift log lay, a section of deserted beach hidden from view by mangroves and brush.

  There, Andrea swept off her mask and snorkel and removed her fins, but as she stood staring at the pink iridescent shells sticking up out of the glistening wet sand, Jerry came up behind her, kissed the curve of her neck, slipped the straps of her swim suit off her shoulders, and dragged the suit down the length of her body. She stepped out of it and stood, her back still to him, waiting. She heard a swish as he removed his suit, then his arms came around her and his hands captured and fondled what had been his for twenty-five years. He wasn't asking, or trying to pleasure her. He was taking what he wanted, and when she felt the hardness of him pressing against her from behind, she turned in his arms and took from him what she wanted. Giving him pleasure was not her objective. This was about self-gratification, taking what was legally theirs as husband and wife. Taking it without thought of giving in return.

  His mouth captured hers, demanding she open. Her tongue searched deeper, insisting he
meet her thrusts. And as they fell to the sand, and the dying sun beat down on them, and the surf of the incoming tide washed over their bodies, the union was turbulent and self-absorbed, the culmination as furious and unrelenting as the waves breaking over them, and when it was over, they stepped away from each other and rinsed themselves in the sea, slipped into their swim suits like strangers on the beach, and went to their separate bungalows, as if nothing had happened.

  The subject of dinner hadn't come up and Andrea was glad. After what happened on the beach she couldn't face Jerry. The irony was, after their heated coming together she felt more like a stranger to Jerry than a wife. There had been no love play, no laughing or horsing around. No affection. And she felt more unfulfilled than ever before.

  Deciding to order room service, and finding her stomach still unsettled from the ordeal the night before, she opted for chicken soup, a dinner roll, and tea. But after she'd finished and the dinner cart had been taken away, she took a long hot shower, wanting to wash away all traces of their lovemaking, knowing the evidence of it was still deep inside her, just as Jerry was. Maybe not inside her physically, the way it had been on the beach, but he was still there emotionally, because even after their fiery, detached, coming together, she wanted him again. But now, she wanted what they'd had before.

  She had just slipped into a pair of batik pants and a shirt when she heard a loud, impatient rapping on the door. Figuring it was Jerry, still bad-tempered because what happened on the beach had been as unsatisfying for him as it was for her, she swept the door open. And froze.

  CHAPTER 10

  "What in hell is going on here?" Andrea's father asked.

  Andrea held her father's angry gaze, mortified that he and her mother were there, certain they'd learned something, fearing what it might be. Flying off on their private jet meant nothing. Landing on Andros Island meant the shit was about to hit the fan.