“In fact, it’s starting to smell pretty powerful in here right now. I better get going. By the way, concrete is porous, so there’s a slight chance that if you can keep the hoop going long enough, the gasoline will seep in and the fumes will dissipate. It’ll take hours, but it’s theoretically possible. And I wouldn’t try to kick the detectors out of the way because that will set them off instantly . . . Well, toodles!”
Scorpion was young and fit. After the first hour, it looked like clear sailing, and he became almost cocky. Then something happened that he hadn’t counted on, though Serge had. Muscle cramps. Lactic acid was building up in the tissue. Try as a he might, the hoop rotated slower and slower, and his eyes grew wider and wider.
The plastic ring fell to the floor.
PART II
Blood in the Water
ONLY YOU
by Lisa Unger
Clearwater Beach
You. Long limbs graceful, incandescent in the moonlight. The surf, lapping lazy and warm against the sugar shore. The sky. A void. Stars dying, galaxies spinning, light-years ago, their glimmer reaching us only now when it’s far too late. Our toes disappear in the silken sand, salt on our skin. You’re so still, so near. But always out of reach. Even now.
“You shouldn’t have come back here.”
Was it just a week ago now? You. Surprised to see me.
“Why would you come back here, Scottie?”
But you already knew the answer. There’s only ever been one question, one answer between us. Silly, isn’t it? When the universe is so vast. That the only important things are so small.
This place is apart. A world separate from the rest of it. Didn’t it always seem like that to you, even when we were younger and we didn’t know anything else? We’d never been anywhere, really. We were just Florida kids, living in bathing suits and flip-flops, always dragging a damp towel, or a fishing rod, or a bucket filled with shells, or some long-suffering sea creature we promised to return to the wild, and sometimes did and sometimes didn’t.
You, a sylph in a simple black sheath that draped off your thin shoulders. The gossamer strands of your haircut blunt and elegant, shaping your jaw. Your eyes a question at first, an almost-pleasant memory lingering there, and then a final, sharp accusation.
That night, just a week ago, you weren’t happy to see me.
He walked up behind you, broad where you are narrow. Dull where you are bright. That possessive hand at the small of your back. You turned and smiled at him, the glare you had for me all but fading.
“Oh, honey,” you said, voice going soft, pleasing. “You remember Scott, don’t you?”
His smile seemed earnest, blue eyes slanted as if searching memory. “Oh, right. From the summers. Hey, good to see you, man. You look great.”
That’s right. From the summers.
We all grew up here. Your father and his—founding members of this yacht club. My father the bartender, forever. These days maybe we’d call him a mixologist. But then, he was just Brian—the slow smile, the easy way he had with that shaker, the guy who could make anything they wanted and happily would.
“Wait a second,” he said, reaching out a hand.
Vineyard Vines oxford, Brooks Brothers blazer, Rolex dangling. Oh please. All the stories we try to tell each other with our possessions.
“Scottie Rayder, right?”
I waited for him to add, the bartender’s kid, or, the camp counselor—something like that, something to make me small. They always try to do that. Make you less than who you have become. I readied myself with a polite smile, returned his firm grip.
“Holy cow,” he said instead, running a hand over the close crop of his blond hair. “I heard you’re killing it. Your software company. Gaming, right? Enigma is the big one, isn’t it? The puzzle.”
His openness, his sincerity. It took me aback.
“That’s right.” I offered him a nod. “And you. A surgeon, right?”
A smile I recognized, a faux-humble squint.
“Hey, you need a new hip, I’m your man,” he said with a grin that was almost—almost—self-deprecating.
“I think I’ll try to hold onto the originals,” I answered, patting my pockets. I’m a big fan of the light banter that’s always been so easy here. Words slip off the tongue, polite laughter bubbles like sparkling wine.
“That’s a good plan,” he said with a practiced chuckle.
This conversation or one just like it has been uttered a thousand, a million times within these walls. The bar top glistened, the music—jazz, Charlie Parker maybe—ambient. Glasses, bottles stood sentry on shelves. Jewelry dangled on delicate necks and ears, wrists, glimmering.
You. Stiff, shoulders tense. Your smile was brittle. Your eyes glazed with impatience. Body turned just slightly toward the door. You couldn’t wait to move away from the conversation.
“Good to see you again, Scott,” you said. “I’m afraid we’re late to join our friends.”
Just shy of rude. Cold, certainly. Not like you at all.
He looked at you quickly, questioning, then nodded. The well-trained husband. Your fingers laced through his, and he gently led you away, casting a glance back. I offered him a farewell wave. Bradley. The one you married.
I wonder if he remembers, or if he ever knew, that you and I were in love. Once. About a light-year ago.
* * *
The house. The one I’m building here. It will be the biggest—by far—in the county, directly on the sand of North Clearwater Beach. Nine thousand square feet, ten bedrooms, eight and half bathrooms, a thirty-three-foot-high entry foyer, five balconies. A gym, a meditation space, a formal dining room that has more square footage than the house where I grew up just miles away. A gleaming state-of-the-art conference room. The master suite will overlook the infinity pool, which will appear to flow seamlessly into the ocean waters beyond. A restaurant-grade kitchen with gleaming Sub-Zero/Wolf appliances, another smaller “family” kitchen, the impractical but oh-so-gorgeous marble from Italy for all the countertops. Sauna, steam room.
It’s obscene really, absolutely bloated. It will be nestled here in this tiny gated section of the beach where gigantic homes sit, oblivious to the state of the planet, on a tiny slip of land between the Gulf of Mexico and the Intracoastal Waterway.
“I thought you were a minimalist,” mused my father, in his late seventies now. He’s long retired, living comfortably nearby. He loaned me $200,000 to start my business and let’s just say it was a good investment for him. My mother didn’t live to see what I’ve made of myself; she passed, as you know. That’s the last time I saw you, at her funeral. I saw you in the back of the crowded church, dabbing at your eyes. You loved her, and she you. You offered your condolences, stiff and distant.
“I am a minimalist,” I told him. “It’s the only house I’ll need.”
“Other than that apartment in Manhattan?”
“Well.”
I tried to get him to move in. But he wouldn’t.
“I don’t want to live in a museum, son.”
The old man is so practical, so down-to-earth. I think the house actually embarrasses him.
“It’s so much, Scottie. Why do you want it so big?”
Because, honestly, that’s all some people ever understand.
* * *
Tonight, the bar and dining room fill, volume swelling. Exuberant, loose. One booming voice in the corner draws eyes filled with respect. That shock of snow-white hair, those crystalline-blue eyes, presidential jaw, a good three inches taller than everyone else. His slim wife in attendance, smiling, sculpted blond bob, face pulled taut in that way of older wealthy women who’ve had too much work done. Your parents. I’ve yet to say hello.
“And I told him . . .” I don’t hear the rest, just the boisterous, conspiratorial laughter that follows.
“I remember you.”
She shifts into the seat beside me, where I hold the corner over by the wall, watching, my martini waning. Raven hair, a s
mattering of freckles, full cheeks, and a pouty mouth. Veronica. She is poured into that blush-pink dress. The diamond on her hand is the size of a Volkswagen.
“Good to see you, Ronnie,” I say. It is. She always made me laugh.
“Scott.” A nod. “Home visiting your dad?”
“Actually, I’ll be around for a while. I’m building a house.”
The bartender, crisp in white and black, wild jet curls pulled back, smart goatee, brings a glass of something sparkling in a flute that she didn’t order.
“Mrs. Roth,” he says easily. “The usual.”
“Thank you, Sean.” She smiles at him, friendly, familiar. “You’re good to me. Since when do you call me Mrs. Roth?”
There’s none of the distance between staff and members that there used to be here. Now it’s all hugs and handshakes. The walls have come down, haven’t they? The lines blurred.
“Since you got married,” he says.
“Oh, so—I’m suddenly worthy of your respect?”
“You’re an old married lady now.”
“That’s right.” She sips from her glass and winks.
“Scottie here is building a house,” he says. “He tell you?”
“He was about to say. When we were interrupted by the help.”
“Ouch.” He winces but then grins.
She tugs at his cuff.
The three of us used to get high together down on the beach. After the members left, the tent erected on the beach for events maybe still up, lit underneath by glittering strands of tiny bulbs. We’d light up and talk about—nothing. Which member was the biggest asshole, how hot it was, how heavy the chairs were that we had to carry down to the water’s edge, what we were going to do with our lives. Then we’d strip down to our underwear and swim in the black warm water. North Beach flows up into Caladesi Island, a nature preserve. No ambient light at all, so the sky was—is—alive with stars. The world would sway and sing. Sean always had weed back then, the good stuff. From the peaceful glaze in his eyes, I’d say he is still up to his old ways.
“Why would you come back here?” she asks. Blunt. Always says exactly what she means. You never realize what a lovely quality that is in a human being until you discover how exceedingly rare it is. “Aren’t you like crazy rich now? You could be anywhere.”
She glances about the room and sees you. Her eyes linger, maybe on the line of your neck, the sweep of your black skirt. There’s a dance on her face, a wiggle of her eyebrows, a flash of something in her eyes. Then she presses her mouth into a tight line. What is it between the two of you? Always a subtle antipathy.
“Oh.” She rises, lifts her glass to mine. “Some things never change.”
When she walks away, Sean stands drying a glass with a bright white cloth, shaking his head.
“Wanna get high later?” he asks, not looking at me.
“Sure.”
* * *
You. Dancing. Having a good time, or so you’ll have them all think.
I could be anywhere. Except I’m always here, waiting for you to see me.
It’s only my second visit to this old club since I came home, but Sean already knows how I like my martini. Which is to say ice-cold Grey Goose vodka, one olive, a whisper of vermouth. I love this place—it smells of Old Florida, wood and salt, a hint of musk, candle wax, something else—sun-bleached memory. It’s all towering ceilings and crown molding, wainscoting, walls and walls of windows that look out onto the serene mangrove bay. Nearly a century of commodore photos line the walls, all men, all white. Thick-carpeted stairs, solid-wood banister, gold finishes. It’s run-down, a little, in a way that only makes it more beautiful.
Sean puts another martini in front of me, number two. I catch my reflection in the mirror, pale white skin, black suit, hair slicked back. Long fingers on the stem of my glass. Nothing about me communicates my extraordinary wealth, except perhaps an aura of indifference. The energy of needing nothing.
Enigma, the game I developed. A small robed figure, hooded, faceless, with a red heart on his chest, tries to find his way through a web of city streets, underground tunnels, forest-scapes, twisting canyons, mountain paths. The color palette is gray scale with jewel accents—bloodred, jade, sapphire. Enigma is searching for his heart’s true home, the hearth fire burning, the embrace of loved ones, the place where he is understood. There are demons—dragons, ghouls, life-draining wraiths—with which he must contend. When he dies, it’s a bloody affair.
“I still haven’t figured it out.”
There’s a young man next to me now. A stranger. He has the look of someone yoked by expectations. It resides in the dark circles under his eyes, his cuticles raw and bitten.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The game,” he says. “I’ve been playing for years. And I still haven’t figured it out. I give up, go back to it. Give up again.”
When they do figure it out, they can’t believe it.
“You will,” I say. This may or may not be true. “Just keep trying.”
“Any hints?”
“The answer is closer than you think.”
I drain my glass and walk outside. Summer has waned, the heavy blanket of heat and humidity lifted, the salt air cool on my face. The high moon colors the cumulus clouds silver, in a velvety blue-black sky. A great blue heron stands in silhouette, long and elegant on a piling to which is tied an enormous yacht. There are other more dramatic places—the elegant squalor of Manhattan, of course, the wild light show of Shanghai, the self-satisfied beauty of Paris, the cool gray loftiness of London. But there is nothing quite like this place, nature’s canvas, peaceful and unassuming.
A gleaming, brand-new, fifty-foot Hatteras—the most self-indulgent of all luxury items, an absolute gas guzzler, an insult by its very existence to world poverty, the environment, good taste—sits tied off on multiple pilings. It’s mine.
I feel, more than hear, you come up behind me.
“This is where I kissed you the first time,” I say.
You blow out a breath. Disdain, something else.
“And where you broke my heart,” I go on into the silence.
“Looks like you got over it.” Your voice is tinny, distant.
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t think about you at all.” It sounds like the lie that it is.
“Come by the house later,” I say. Does it sound easy, casual? “Sean and I are going to get high.”
“I’m married,” you say. “I have a child.”
There’s a tightness to your voice, as if you’ve taken offense; as if you can’t imagine I’d suggest such a thing. The good wife. The pretty mother. I know well the lovely little story of your life, the one you post about daily on your Facebook page.
“You were always good at slipping away,” I say, turning to you. “As I remember.”
You soften, laugh a little; we share a storybook of wild memories. Our misspent youth.
“Betsy Lynn.” Your husband; he’s come looking. You are the jewel in his coat. “Hon, you ready?”
“Of course,” you say. “Let’s go.”
“Night, Scottie.” Another robust handshake from your handsome Bradley. “Good to see you again, man.”
But this time there’s an edge. He does remember me. He knows what I was to you. I smile.
“Good night, Brad.”
* * *
“They’re never going to accept you, you get that, right?” Sean blows out the gust of smoke he’s been holding in. His eyes glimmer with mischief, smile wide and peaceful.
Accept me? As if. My membership to this yacht club where I used to work was easy to secure. Just a phone call from my attorney, and the doors swung wide. No trial membership. No seeking of sponsorships. Just a nice big check, the golden key to any lock.
Accept me? People will bow at your feet if they think you can help them with something, anything—donate to their causes, buy their properties, use their contracting companies, drive of
f in one of their new cars. Acceptance is not the goal here. Acceptance is what people think they want.
We’re on the bow of the Hatteras, still at the dock, the club closed and empty now of members and staff. The pool glows chlorine blue; the lights stay on. This was when it was ours, at night after everyone left and the pool was clean, the camp room tidied and the kitchen closed.
“Can I say something?” asks Sean.
“Sure.”
“I don’t get it. Your game. I don’t get it. It’s not that fun. It’s not like Fortnite. That shit’s epic, man.”
I have to admit, I’ve always been pretty chill. I think I get it from my dad. These days more than ever, I just don’t give a shit.
“It’s not for everyone,” I concede.
He takes another long drag before handing the joint off to me.
* * *
We drift along the Intracoastal, easy. Moonlight glinting on the black water. It’s high tide and we know these waters, how shallow they get, how fast. Right outside the channel, a snowy egret balances on one leg, delicate, its clawed foot just barely beneath the surface of the water. Its white feathers glow, its gaze impervious.
Sean is easy at the helm. Kayaks, skiffs, bow riders, opti sailboats, big yachts like this one; we’ve done it all. We used to run the big ones home for drunk members. Sometimes member kids with a little too much freedom would invite us for pleasure cruises.
Once—do you remember, Betsy Lynn?—you and I ran your father’s boat aground. Making out, not paying attention, we wound up in the shoals by one of the tiny barrier islands. There was hell to pay. But not really. We got a lecture about trust and responsibility. And: “Scottie, you should know better. You grew up on these waters. This is a million-dollar boat, son, not a bath toy.” Your old man liked me; he grew up with my parents. If that historic prom night had gone a little differently, he liked to quip, I might have been his son.
Sean steers the boat to my new dock, so close that the club is still visible as he effortlessly brings the monster to a halt. I’m living on it until the house is done. Our house. The kind we used to dream about.
Edna Buck—white-haired, besuited, bejeweled gossip columnist—has already done her piece for the local paper. Hometown Boy Makes It Big, Comes Back to Roost. And you thought your kids were rotting their brains with video games! Just look at tech billionaire Scottie’s new beach bungalow!
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