The House on Mermaid Point

by Wendy Wax

  At six thirty the air was already hot and muggy. She was smiling at the thought of fish sipping tiny cups of coffee, when William stepped out of the pavilion wearing only cutoffs and carrying a fishing rod. He crossed the small half-moon of sand and moved out into the shallow water. His arm arced behind him and then arced forward. She watched him for a time as he whipped his line back and then outward again, admiring the fluid, balletlike nature of his movements.

  She dithered yet again over how to face him. But this morning, in the clean bright light of a new day, continuing her internal debate seemed silly. They were confined on a small island, in exceptionally close proximity, for another six to eight weeks. Climbing into a hole and disappearing seemed unlikely. Dying of embarrassment was even unlikelier. It was the Fourth of July. By the next afternoon everyone would be back and it would be business as usual; plenty of people to hide behind, work to dilute her desire. She felt something akin to panic when she realized that it might also mean a missed opportunity that might never come again.

  As William had so astutely pointed out, they were both adults. It was time to start acting like one.

  Maddie washed her face, brushed her teeth, twisted her hair up in a clip, and pulled on shorts and a bathing suit top. Pouring a second cup of coffee, which she carried with her, she left the houseboat and walked past the tidal pool and out to join William, where he stood almost knee-deep in the water.

  “Good morning.” Her voice broke on the greeting but she pretended not to notice and, thankfully, William did the same. He looked like a noble savage or early hunter-gatherer with his bronzed skin stretched taut over a lean, muscled frame, his shaggy dark hair with its streaks of gray brushing his broad shoulders.

  “Morning.” His tone was casual as he turned toward her, but then, it was unlikely that his interest in her the previous night had been anything but casual, just like all sex undoubtedly was to him. Her reflection shimmered back at her from his mirrored sunglasses.

  “What are you fishing for?” She matched his tone and wished she had sunglasses to hide behind.

  “Bonefish. Last two hours of tide going out is a good time to get them. But they’re tricky and skittish.” He lowered his sunglasses briefly and looked pointedly at her. “They don’t call them gray ghosts for nothing.” He turned his attention, taking the rod back and then forward, the yellow line snapping forward and disappearing beneath the surface.

  “What kind of bait are you using?”

  “They like small shrimp and small crabs, but I’m using an epoxy head fly.”

  “Is that one of the ones you made?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The bushy yellow one or the shiny copper thing?”

  He smiled, a simple flash of white teeth, and she felt herself begin to relax.

  “Shiny copper colored. I didn’t know you were so interested in fishing.”

  “Never thought about it before I came here. Is it difficult?”

  “Mostly it just takes patience. Both learning to fly cast and understanding how the fish think.”

  “Fish think?” Who knew, maybe they drank tiny cups of coffee, too.

  “Well, I’m not sure they could ever be accused of premeditation, but they can be pretty wily. And bonefish are fast as all get-out.”

  “Do you mind if I watch?”

  “No, but from what I hear the only thing that takes more patience than fishing is watching someone else fish.”

  Maddie laughed.

  “Move over to my left just in case. Wouldn’t want to hook you by mistake.”

  He whipped his line in and cast back out as they talked, smooth, easy movements that seemed entirely reflexive. She sipped her coffee for a while, enjoying the feel of the water ebbing around her calves. The early morning sun was warm but not yet brutal on her skin. She was enjoying watching William Hightower’s graceful movements. The long arcing cast that looked as if he were sending the fly to a specific location, the smooth movements of the rod that were half jerk and half glide.

  “Are you aiming at something out there?” she asked as she watched the line pierce the surface.

  “Absolutely.”

  She peered more closely, but all she saw was water.

  “The fish are over there.” He nodded to where he’d just cast. “You see that motion and the muddy water? That’s them tailing. They’re eating off the bottom and their tails are sticking up. You’d be able to see them if you had polarized sunglasses on.”

  She wished she could see his eyes so she’d know if he was pulling her leg, but the set of his lips and his tone indicated he was completely serious. “I just placed that fly right in front of the fish I have my eye on. That’s how you get a fish’s attention. I want him to think it’s fresh food. Those little movements?” He gave a few smooth pulls of the rod. “That’s a method of trying to tempt him to take a bite.”

  “Doesn’t that seem like a lot of effort to expend on catching one fish?”

  He laughed. “I’ve never really looked at it that way, but I guess you have a point.” He whipped in the line and arced it back out again. “Sometimes one fish is all you need and it’s worth the effort.” He looked right at her when he said it. Her chest tightened.

  “About last night . . .” she began.

  “It’s okay, Maddie.” He whipped in the line, cast it out again. She noticed that he held on to a loop of the line with his left hand. “You were probably right to say no. I doubt I’m what you need right now.”

  “Well, I . . .” An odd sense of disappointment struck her.

  “Really, there’s no need to worry about it.”

  He looked completely unperturbed. Clearly she’d given his interest way more importance than it deserved.

  “Do you want to give it a try?”

  “What?” Her mind was still on what they might have done together if she hadn’t behaved so moronically.

  “Casting,” he repeated. “Do you want to give it a try?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I know you’re busy here and I . . .”

  “You don’t want to let fear keep you from trying new things, Maddie. I’d be glad to show you how.” Once again he looked at her and it was clear that they weren’t just talking about fishing anymore. “I’ve been told I’m a decent teacher.”

  When she didn’t answer he brought in his line. “Come on. If you’re going to stay out in the sun you need a hat and lotion and you’ll need to keep those flip-flops on so you don’t cut your feet. I’ve got a fly rod that will be a better fit for you.”

  She followed him into the pavilion, where he pulled two bottles of orange juice out of the refrigerator and handed her one. “Drink up. You don’t want to get dehydrated. And you’re going to need your strength.”

  He pushed a tube of sunscreen toward her then opened what she recognized as the sheath that housed the signed rod she’d found in his closet.

  “Oh, no, I can’t use that. I know how valuable it is and what it means to you . . .”

  “You’ll do better with an eight weight. And I don’t think this rod was meant to sit unused in a closet forever, do you?” he asked, cutting off her protests.

  “Well, I don’t know if—”

  “The correct answer to that is, ‘No, Will, it shouldn’t. And good for you for moving on a little in your thinking. You can’t hide from the hard/hurtful things forever.’” He had removed the three parts of the rod and now began to put them together as he talked, pointing out the butt, with its cork handle, and the tip as he screwed them on. Then he snapped and twisted the reel into place and began to feed the line up through what he told her were the guides.

  “Here.” He put the assembled rod into her hands then picked up the tube of sunscreen. “Turn around.” The next thing she knew his large, strong hands were rubbing lotion onto her shoulders, the backs of her arms, down her back. She stood
completely still, careful not to whimper with pleasure as he completed what felt like a deep-tissue caress. At that moment she would have followed him and his hands anywhere.

  Two hours later . . . not so much.

  • • •

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to lift my arm again.” Maddie looked at the man who had seemed so easygoing just a couple of hours before and had turned into such a hard-hearted taskmaster.

  “That’s okay, the tide’s out. You won’t be catching anything of value out here now anyway.” It was just after eight thirty. The sun was still on the rise.

  “As if. I didn’t even get close to a fish or a fish’s mouth,” Maddie complained. “But I’m pretty sure I heard a few of them laughing at me.”

  There was that devastating flash of white teeth again. But then, that was probably because he thought she was joking. “You didn’t do so bad for your first time out.”

  She looked to see if he were joking. He’d kept her far enough away from the mangroves and the palm trees that she couldn’t snag or break her line, but that hadn’t stopped her from looping, tying, pooling, and knotting it on virtually every single attempted cast. She handed him the rod and accepted the bottled water he pulled out of the fridge. “I appreciate the lesson, but I don’t seem to have a single scintilla of aptitude for fly-fishing.”

  He laughed and took a swig of water. “It was your first time. It’s a little soon to decide that.”

  “No, I can tell.” Her arm wasn’t the only thing feeling too heavy. Her body was remembering that she’d barely slept the night before. So were her eyelids. “I need a nap.” She yawned. “Thanks for the torture. I mean the lesson.” She flashed him her own pearly whites though it was more of a yawn than a laugh by the time she was done. For once she couldn’t have cared less how he saw her or what he thought. All she could think about was getting to the houseboat, pulling down the blind, and sleeping as long as she possibly could.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  She awoke to the sound of something hitting her window. She curled into a tighter ball and pulled the pillow over her ears to try to block the sound.

  “Maddie?”

  She yawned, kept her eyes tightly shut. She had pretty much decided not to ever get up again.

  “Hey!” Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck of the houseboat. There was a brisk knock on the outer cabin door. More footsteps.

  She flopped over but didn’t open her eyes.

  “You’re not still sleeping?” William Hightower’s voice was laced with amusement and feigned horror. “If you don’t get up you’re going to miss the entire holiday.”

  She peeled one eye open and saw him filling the doorway, all good humor and spirits and sun-bronzed skin. “What time is it?”

  “Time for a soak in the hot tub; it’ll make your arm muscles feel better. And we can see the fireworks all the way up and down U.S. 1 from there.”

  She sat up, clutching her pillow against her chest. She had a vague sense of her hair sticking up in multiple directions and could practically feel the imprint of the pillow on her cheek. “Just gimme another hour and I’ll be right with you.”

  “Nope.” He pulled the pillow out of her hands. “Come on! You’ll miss the fireworks. I’ve got food and drink ready.”

  Both eyes were open now. She saw that he wore only bathing trunks and a smile.

  “Just put on a suit. If you’re not there in five minutes I’ll come back and carry you.”

  “Fine.” After he left she put on her suit and slipped a long shirt over it. When she got there he was already in the hot tub. A tray with glasses, an open bottle of white wine, and an assortment of paper plates sat near the edge. Her heart stilled at the sight of the bottle and she pulled off her shirt without a second thought and climbed into the tub.

  “No alcohol on the island.” It was the first thing she said. “You shouldn’t—”

  “I’m not drinking. You are.”

  “But—”

  “It’s okay, Maddie. Would you feel better if I put it in a Coke can?”

  So much for their attempts at camouflage.

  “If I can’t keep from drinking every time someone else around me does, then I guess I need to head back to rehab.” He put the wineglass in her hand. “It’s okay. I’m not tempted.” He gave her the crooked smile that made her heart beat faster. “At least not by the wine.”

  She took a sip and felt the cool crispness slip down her throat. She tried not to look like she was enjoying it.

  “It’s okay, really. I’ll let you know if I have an overpowering urge to wrestle the glass out of your hand and mainline the Chardonnay.”

  “All right.” She raised the glass back to her lips. “Today, at least, you seem to be the boss.”

  “Good. Then eat up.” He moved the plate of crackers topped with cheese and slices of cold meats toward her. “There’s a frozen pizza if we want it later. I thought you might not appreciate fish tonight.”

  “Too true. And I have a steak in the houseboat refrigerator.” She set the wineglass aside and knew that the last thing on her mind was food. Between the jets stirring the warm water around their bare skin, the wine, and William’s proximity she felt simultaneously relaxed and seriously on edge. She leaned her head against the back of the hot tub and let her legs float out in front of her.

  They fell silent as they watched the bright yellow sun, lit from within, glowing in the center of a reddening sky.

  “So, Madeline Singer, I’ve been wondering. How does a nice woman like you end up on reality television renovating a house for a not-so-nice person like me?”

  “Short version or long?”

  “I’ve got all night.” He said this simply, but the promise in the words shot goose bumps across her skin.

  She told him pretty much everything from Steve’s confession that they’d lost their savings and his job to Malcolm Dyer’s Ponzi scheme to how odd it felt to be single after more than a quarter century with someone. She checked his face occasionally, prepared to stop the moment he began to look bored, but that never happened. He asked questions about Kyra and Andrew and listened intently when she tried to explain how closely linked her fear and excitement over the future were. The sun had sunk out of sight, leaving only a dusty red sky, by the time she finished. She’d consumed almost half the bottle of wine; her body and her mind floated gently. She began to have more sympathy for Kyra’s struggle to resist a handsome celebrity.

  William leaned over and brushed her lips with his, a soft exploratory kiss that thrilled and warmed her. “You’re a surprising woman, Madeline Singer.”

  She sighed against his lips. “Only because you’ve never spent more than five minutes anywhere near a suburban housewife.”

  “My loss.” He kissed her again, more thoroughly this time. She knew she should put some distance between them, but her body seemed to be developing a mind of its own.

  “Is it my turn?” she asked when she’d convinced her lips to let go of his. “To ask a question, I mean?”

  “It’s your turn for whatever you want, Maddie.” His dark eyes plumbed hers and she wondered what he saw there.

  “Tell me why you don’t make music or even listen to it anymore.”

  His eyes flared with surprise. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “I’m trying to learn to be direct.”

  He laughed softly, shook his head. His discomfort was apparent. “Short version or long?”

  “Up to you,” she said. “But I’ve got all night.”

  She watched him absorb this. Watched him run a hand through his hair in a gesture she was beginning to recognize.

  “When I was growing up we were poor and my parents were drunk most of the time. It was all I knew. But sometimes, when I was listening to music, I didn’t even notice. I loved R and B, soul, jazz, gos
pel, country. Didn’t matter. My most prized possession was a transistor radio I got at Goodwill. When I was twelve I saved up every penny I could get my hands on and bought this banged-up old guitar. And I taught myself to play it.”

  She recognized scraps of this from the interviews and articles she’d inhaled as a teen, but she’d never imagined the raw hurt in his voice that she heard now. “For a long time the music filled me up, lifted me. Hell, it yanked me and Tommy right out of there.” He smiled sadly. “It was always in my head. And the words? They just came. Like a gift from God that I was too stupid and full of myself to ever question.”

  He drew a deep breath and even though he was looking right at her, she knew it wasn’t her he was seeing. “Then I lost my brother. And Susannah. And James, our drummer, who was like a second brother. It’s hard to stand up to the kind of excess we heaped on ourselves.”

  She held her breath, not wanting to interrupt the words that poured out of him. She wanted to comfort him, give him something that would take away at least some of the pain, but she just held still and listened. “And then one day when I was thinking the gift was mine no matter how badly I abused it, it was gone. And I knew it was taken away because I hadn’t lived up to it. I hadn’t respected it. I didn’t deserve it.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “I have swallowed, inhaled, and shot up every numbing agent I could think of. I’ve tried to blot out the absence every way possible, but it’s like this big yawning emptiness inside me. As if somebody reached inside my skin and ripped me open and everything important seeped right out of me.” He reached a hand out to trace her cheek with his fingers. “It’s even harder now that I’m sober. Because every beautiful thing I listen to reminds me of what I frittered away.”

  She reached for him then, wrapped her arms around him, pressed herself against him. His hands cupped her bottom and he lifted her up so that her legs wrapped weightless around him. “It’s not gone. The words are yours; they came from your heart, not some mysterious place in the universe.” She didn’t know where the assurances came from, but she had no doubt they were true. “You have to stop punishing yourself. You have to believe. You—”