I swallow hard, trying to ignore the warmth that’s flooded me, especially between my legs. It’s been a long time since a man has affected me like this, and desire rushes back and clutches me. My legs feel heavy, my breasts tender. I wonder if he sees it, if he can feel my longing without touching me.
‘I thought that was you at the spa, but you left so quickly, without saying hello. The woman there said your name’s Nicole.’ He’s challenging me, but I merely nod.
‘Nicole Jones,’ I tell him, thinking about that other name, the one I haven’t uttered for years. ‘And what are you calling yourself these days?’
‘Zeke,’ he says. ‘Zeke Chapman.’
I tighten my grip on the handlebars of my bike, steadying myself as I struggle to breathe.
It is all I can do to pedal up the next hill. When the lighthouse comes into view, I jump off the bike and walk it across the grass; he is keeping up behind me. He is in good shape, with just a hint of exhaustion that comes with the island’s terrain. I wish he wasn’t. I try to sprint forward, but he is there again, at my side. His name is swirling around in my head. I don’t have to ask why he chose that one. I know why. He means to unnerve me in every possible way, as if just showing up here isn’t enough.
‘So you live here year round?’ he asks, not interested at all in the history of the lighthouse that I recite.
I nod.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asks.
While I am tempted to lie, it would be easy for him to find out the truth, if he doesn’t know already. ‘Fifteen years.’
‘All that time?’
I can see him doing the math in his head. ‘Yes.’
‘And you make your living by giving bike tours?’
‘I paint a little, too. People buy my paintings.’ I don’t mean to tell him this; it sounds like I’m boasting.
But he’s unfazed. ‘Really?’ He seems impressed.
It’s as if we were at a cocktail party, so I ask the next logical question: ‘What do you do now?’
The smile vanishes for a second and then is back, but his eyes have narrowed and he shrugs. ‘Same as before.’
It’s been so long that I can’t imagine doing what I did before.
‘Where are you living now?’ I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
‘The same place.’
‘Really?’ My incredulity must show, because his grin broadens.
‘Not all of us run away,’ he says.
I think about this for a second before saying, ‘Some of us didn’t have a choice.’
His eyes narrow as the grin slides off his face, his jaw tenses. ‘There is always a choice.’
I sigh, shrug, kick a pebble with the toe of my shoe. I don’t want to get into it right now.
‘Do you want to have lunch?’ he asks after a few seconds.
This is not the question I’d been expecting. ‘Like a date?’ I raise my eyebrows.
‘You probably know the best places to go here,’ he says, teasing me, his eyes dancing across my face, moving down my body, lingering.
‘Yes, I do,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘I’m not sure I want to have lunch dressed like this,’ I add, indicating my bike shorts.
He assesses my legs thoughtfully. ‘I don’t mind, but I understand.’
‘I’d like to take a shower and change first,’ I say, aware of his penetrating eyes.
‘So would I,’ he says suggestively.
I cannot reply, but I start walking my bike back to the road. This is the first time I have not looked across the water from this spot.
I let him into my house, our bikes parked outside. We are in the kitchen when he reaches for me. Even though I expect it, it happens so quickly, the long, deep kiss. It is so familiar I feel a catch in my throat. I am not Nicole now. I am who I was before.
His fingers move to my breasts, between my legs, and despite myself, I want it – I want him. I force myself to pull away, aware that my face is hot and flushed. He reaches for me again, but I take another step back. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing him back here.
‘You never played hard to get before.’ His voice is gruff with desire, but to his credit, he stays where he is.
‘It’s not the same.’
‘That felt the same.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You mean, you, here, Miss Bike Tours? You’re all settled in this little house.’ He scans the small, outdated kitchen with its white wood cabinets and Formica countertops. ‘This isn’t how I remember you.’
‘I’m not that person anymore.’
He stares at me a long time, then a slow grin spreads across his face. ‘You’ve fooled them all, haven’t you? Does anyone here know?’
‘No. And I’d like to keep it that way.’ I fold my arms across my chest, pushing him even further away.
‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ he asks.
The threat in his tone lingers, like an uninvited guest who won’t go away.
But then he leaves without another word, or another look behind him. I close the door, sliding the deadbolt and slipping on the chain as I watch him ride his bike down the hill until he is out of sight.
I shut my eyes and wish for the first time that I did not live on an island.
I don’t answer the phone when it rings. Instead, I take my painting things – the easel, the canvas, my box of paints – and walk to the beach. Not the public beach, but the one near my house, the one that no one can see from the road. The clouds have moved in; the waves crash against the sand that slides underneath them. My brush strokes are long and fat, gray with hints of blue and purple. It doesn’t really look like that, but I see the colors anyway.
I paint until long after lunchtime, when the clouds suddenly part and a streak of sunlight shines down on the water, which shimmers under its touch. I try to capture that, but it’s impossible, and then it’s gone. I decide I have to get something to eat, but I’m nervous that he will be waiting for me. My stomach growls. I pack up my tools and make my way back.
No one is there. The house is alone, like me, and I let myself inside. There are three messages on my machine.
‘Call me when you get in.’ Steve’s voice soothes me, and I relax.
‘Stop by if you get a chance.’ It’s Jeanine. It seems like weeks since I saw her, but it’s only been a day.
‘Someone wants to commission a painting of the North Light. Call me, and I’ll give you the number.’ Veronica, her business-like tone hiding the usual insecurity that hovers beneath her surface. I think of the painting I’ve started today and how I want to finish it soon and get it into the gallery.
I make myself a salad and worry about him. He is not the kind of man who will go away that easily.
He falls in step with me just as I’m about to go into Veronica’s gallery. He touches my lower back lightly, and a fire moves through me before I take a step away. I look up at him as we walk through the door. His eyes are smiling, although his lips are not.
‘Nicole!’ Veronica swoops toward us, dressed in a green cotton pullover and a pair of Levis, Birkenstocks on her feet. Her short hair frames her face, which is straining with her forced smile. ‘And Mr Chapman! I’m so glad you’re here together.’
I am confused, and it must show on my face, because Veronica says then, ‘Mr Chapman is the client I left the message about. He wants to commission a painting of the North Light. He came in earlier and really admires your work.’
A small pilot light inside me ignites with anger, but I force myself to look at him. ‘Is that so?’
‘It’s a beautiful spot, and your paintings are impressive,’ he says, moving around the gallery and stopping at each one to show me how he’s memorized where they are. ‘And the North Light has some sentimental meaning to me. Perhaps you could put a biker in the picture.’
I feel my face flush. ‘When would you want the painting?’
‘How soon can you get it do
ne?’
I think a minute. ‘It could take a few weeks. How long are you on the island?’
‘I’m staying a few more days. I could leave my email address, and you can let me know when it’s ready.’
Veronica laughs, a high, twittery sound. ‘Oh, Mr Chapman, Nicole doesn’t have a computer! I’ve offered to have my nephew design a website for her work – I think she’d do a lot more business with that – but she refuses.’
He studies me with a curious expression, and I know what he’s thinking.
‘No computer?’ he says, the smile tickling his lips. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, I don’t know if she even knows how to turn one on!’ Veronica cannot keep her mouth shut sometimes.
He takes a pen out of his pocket and waves it at Veronica, who finds him a piece of paper. He scribbles on it and hands it to me. ‘Here’s my cell phone number.’
I take it and stare at it a long minute before Veronica pipes up again. ‘We need a deposit.’
‘How much will it cost?’ he asks me.
My eyes stray to a painting behind him of a stonewall and apple trees. It is listed at $500. It’s not one of my better efforts. ‘A thousand,’ I say.
Veronica’s eyebrows shoot up into her forehead. I have never charged a thousand dollars for any painting before. But he is pulling cash out of a billfold and handing it to Veronica. ‘Is five hundred enough for now?’
She spits out something that sounds like ‘That’s plenty’ and takes the money. I am afraid she may not want to part with it, even though I am owed most of it, if not all of it. I am on consignment here, although no one has ever commissioned a painting, so I am uncertain of the protocol. I suppose it could be under the auspices of my consignment contract, but part of me wants all of the money. Especially since it’s from him.
Veronica peels back four of the hundred-dollar bills and gives them to me. I shove them into the front pocket of my jeans.
‘Thank you,’ I say, not meeting his eyes.
‘Since I’m here a few days, how about dinner?’ he asks.
I can feel Veronica’s stare. She has never seen me with a man, even though she’s tried to fix me up with several through the years, and now she’s witnessing someone asking me on a date. I want to tell her that it’s not what she thinks.
‘I’m afraid I have plans.’ It is, fortunately, Friday night and my standing date with Steve. I look at Veronica. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ I say, and turn to leave.
I can feel the heat from his body as he follows me closely. Once outside, he shuts the door. I don’t slow down but begin fumbling with the lock on my bike, my hands shaking. He takes it from me, his eyes again making my heart skip. Together we manage to unlock it, and I wrap the chain around the seat.
‘No computer?’ he asks softly, the chuckle in the back of his throat. This is not the question I’m anticipating, but as I shake my head, I am telling him, in a sense, more of my story.
I mount my bike and pedal away from him, my chest pounding. Once I get home, I lock the door and curl up in bed, the comforter around my neck. When the phone rings, I ignore it, burying my head in the pillows.
FIVE
I feel like a prisoner in my own home, no longer just on the island. I am afraid to run into him again. I cannot afford to have him popping up everywhere. It’s bad enough he asked me out in front of Veronica. That is probably already all over the island. It is for this reason that I force myself to get dressed, get back on my bike and ride to Club Soda to meet Steve.
He kisses me on the cheek as I slide onto a stool across the table from him.
‘How was your day?’ he asks, handing me a menu.
I don’t even look at it. I get the same thing every time, but every time Steve offers me that choice. ‘Uneventful,’ I say, although I am lying. The cell phone number crackled and called to me from my backpack, and when I finally took it out and tried to rip it up, I couldn’t. I put it on the refrigerator, stuck with a magnet in the shape of the island.
Steve peers into my face. ‘You look different.’
I shrug, running a hand through my hair, hopefully nonchalantly. ‘How?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. You’re just a little different tonight.’ And then he grins. ‘Maybe it’s that guy who asked you out today.’
I sigh. As I suspected, Veronica has successfully spread the news. ‘Did she tell you I turned him down?’
‘Why? Just because of me? I would’ve understood.’ He is so sincere, wanting me to be happy.
‘Men are a dime a dozen,’ I say. ‘But you’re my friend, and I wanted to see you tonight.’
Abby, the waitress, approaches with two beers in hand. We are about to say that we haven’t ordered them when she cocks her head toward the bar. ‘Compliments of the guy over there.’
I know without seeing him that he is here.
‘Is that him?’ Steve whispers conspiratorially.
I don’t even turn around. ‘I’m not interested. Isn’t that enough?’ I hear the annoyance in my tone. I have never snapped at Steve before, and he leans back in his chair, his arms folded in front of him.
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think the lady doth protest too much,’ he says.
I cannot laugh at his joke, because he’s right. Instead, I take a swig of my beer. Abby returns, and we order our hamburgers and onion rings.
‘So you’re not even going to go over and thank him?’ Steve asks.
‘No, and you aren’t, either,’ I say, suspecting that’s what he’s about to do.
‘It would be the polite thing to do. He’s a nice-looking young man.’ He is staring pointedly over at the bar. I still have my back to it.
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ I say, although it does. It is what attracted me to him in the first place.
‘You’re blushing. I’ve never seen you blush before.’ Steve is not teasing me now. He is genuinely perplexed. I try to think of something to say, but my mind is a blank. ‘I think you do like this guy. Why are you resisting? You shouldn’t lock yourself up the way you do. You’re still a young woman. You should fall in love.’
I snort. ‘That’s easy for you to say. You had Dotty. You had twenty years of romance with the woman of your dreams. Sometimes it just doesn’t happen that way.’ This is not a new conversation. But it is the first time we are discussing it when there is someone who wants to date me sitting within a few yards. Someone who is viable, in Steve’s opinion. And then he surprises me.
‘Why don’t you just take him home with you for the night?’
I am not sure what to say. We have talked about love and lifelong commitments, but we have never talked about sex. I just assumed that he’s very old fashioned about it.
‘I mean, Nicole, unless you’re leading some sort of secret life up in that house of yours, you might need a night with a man.’ His expression is so sincere, his words slice through me and I want to cry. He sees me brush at my eye, and he clears his throat. ‘Of course, I’ve never asked you this, but maybe you’re, well, maybe you—’ He is so uncomfortable he has to stop, and it dawns on me what he’s implying.
It makes me laugh. ‘Oh, no, it’s not like that,’ I say quickly. ‘I definitely don’t play for the other team, Steve. I just haven’t met anyone I want to take home.’
He looks so relieved that I can’t stop laughing. It’s contagious, and he joins in until we are both heaving with laughter, tears trickling down our cheeks.
‘What’s so funny?’ Abby puts our plates in front of us and we look up, try to speak but can’t, falling into even more hysterics. ‘Don’t choke on it,’ Abby says flatly as she leaves us.
The quiet hum of the chatter around us serenades us as we eat. I can almost ignore him as I chew thoughtfully, picking up one onion ring after the other, this time eating the whole thing, leaving nothing but a couple of crumbs on the plate. Steve glances up every once in a while, his eyes skipping past my face and toward what’s behind me. I
shake off the gaze that has settled in the middle of my back.
A nagging feeling tugs at my stomach. Now that there is some distance between seeing him for the first time and now, my thoughts begin to line up in an orderly manner. He didn’t show up here by accident. And there is only one way he could have known where to find me. I have no credit cards, no driver’s license, no bank account. I pay with cash for everything. I have no Social Security number. My utilities are in my landlord’s name. I do not pay taxes. I simply do not exist.
‘Earth to Nicole.’ Steve is waving the last onion ring in front of my face, and I force myself to smile. ‘Where are you?’
I sigh. ‘It’s been a long day.’
Steve gets up from his seat. ‘I have to hit the head,’ he says, and walks away.
I count to six before I feel his hand on my shoulder. I twist around to see him looking down at me.
‘Why are you ignoring me?’ he asks playfully, his eyes twinkling. ‘It’s as if you don’t want me in your life.’
‘No one ever accused you of being stupid,’ I say, wishing there were more onion rings so I would have something to do with my hands. An overwhelming urge to light a cigarette consumes me, and another flashback assaults my brain: a thin glass containing a clear, chilled liquid surrounded by a dusting of smoke, fingers – my fingers – curled around the glass’s stem. It is gone as quickly as it came, and I blink as if someone has pointed a bright light in my eyes.
He is not to be dissuaded. He slips into Steve’s chair. ‘I’m hurt,’ he says, pretending to pout. ‘I thought you would be happy to see me.’ His eyes grow smoky and dark, and I feel his heat.
Steve is coming back, and I shake my head. Before I can introduce them, he is standing, shaking Steve’s hand. ‘Zeke Chapman.’
‘Steve McQueen.’
‘Really?’ He shoots me a glance. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘No, my name is Steve McQueen.’
He snorts. ‘Do they call you Bullitt? Have you ever lived in San Francisco?’ He is acting like a jerk.
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