“I’m a scientist. I don’t believe in bad luck,” Graham said.
Just then an eighteen-wheeler thundered by. It barreled right through a huge puddle and, with a great swishing splash, sprayed me from head to toe.
“Ack!” I shrieked. I held my arms out in front of me as I stared down at the damage. I was filthy. My pink boat-necked shirt and jeans were soaked through with muddy water. Even my face was splattered; I could taste oily grit on my lips.
Graham looked at me solemnly. He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“See? Bad luck,” I said, through clenched teeth.
“You have a little mud right here,” Graham said, pointing to my cheek. I reached up to brush it off and only succeeded in smearing more dirt on my face. Graham couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer and began to snicker.
“If you need me, I’ll be back behind the car,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.
“Everything okay? Besides the mud bath, I mean,” Graham asked, once he’d gotten the spare tire on and we were back en route. I’d used one of his T-shirts to wipe off as much of the mud as I could from my hands and face, although my clothes and hair were still a mess. At least the rain had finally stopped, and the sun looked as if it was trying to break through the heavy gray clouds.
“Just dandy,” I said.
“You’ve been really quiet,” Graham said.
It was a bland remark, but I cringed anyway and turned to gaze out the window of our rented Taurus before he could see my face.
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Guilt flooded through me every time I looked at Graham. I worried that he’d be able to sense that I’d cheated on him, maybe even smell Nick’s scent still clinging to my body. I’d showered three times—twice last night and once again this morning—but maybe I’d missed a spot on the hollow of my throat or the small of my back that was still imprinted with Nick.
“Don’t be,” Graham said, smiling at me. He reached out and took my hand, entwining our fingers together. He brushed his lips against my curved knuckles and then rested our hands on the seat between us.
The drive from the Miami airport down to Key West wasn’t what I had expected. For some reason, I thought that the entire trip would be over water, one long bridge stretching out across the ocean. But most of the interminably long drive south on U.S. 1 was over land. One key blended into the next, a blur of fast-food restaurants, kitschy hotels, and gas stations. “The Girl from Ipanema” hummed on the radio, and I stared out the window at the occasional stretch of teal-blue water and wondered for the umpteenth time what in the hell I’d been thinking of the day before.
“This should be fun. I’ve never been to Key West before,” I said, trying to force myself into the spirit of things.
“I was there once, but it was years ago. I’ve been wanting to come back ever since,” Graham said. He glanced at me. “Come on, tell me. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” I said.
“I know you better than that. Something’s obviously on your mind.”
Great. I’d cheated on my boyfriend, and I was terrible at hiding things. Note to self: Learn how to lie.
After we checked in to the hotel, Graham went out to buy me something to wear to dinner, while I got in the shower and did my best to scrub the mud out of my hair. He was already back when I emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, wrapped in one of the hotel’s white, fluffy robes and feeling slightly more human.
“That was fast,” I said.
“There’s a T-shirt shop just next door. I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I just got you a T-shirt and shorts,” he said, handing me a red plastic bag.
“Great, thanks. I guess we won’t be able to go anywhere dressy for dinner.”
“The concierge told me there’s a really good casual Italian place nearby. I’m just going to hop in the shower, and then we can go eat,” Graham said.
As Graham showered, I emptied the shopping bag that contained my new outfit onto the bed. And I learned something new about my boyfriend: Either he was color-blind or he just had terrible taste. The shorts and T-shirt he bought me were a garish orange cotton knit screen-printed with sparkling blue fish. When I put them on, I looked like an eighty-year-old woman going on a cruise. Even worse, the only shoes I had to wear were the high-heel zebra-print mules I’d worn on the plane. The shoes were adorable with jeans, but when paired with orange cotton cabana-wear they made me look insane. I examined my reflection in the full-length mirror. It was even worse than I thought.
I need a drink, I thought. A big drink.
“I’m going to the hotel bar,” I yelled through the closed bathroom door.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Graham called back.
The bar was poolside, forcing me to walk by a herd of glamorous bikini-clad women reclining by the pool. They looked me up and down and smirked.
Gah, I thought.
When I reached the bar, there were two men sitting on bar stools. One was tall with thinning blond hair, and the other short and stocky with a wide nose and a thatch of dark hair. Both were sunburned. They were drinking frozen margaritas with salt around the rim and thick wedges of lime bobbing amid the melting ice cubes.
“Yeah, that guy is a prick,” the blond man said.
“No fucking kidding,” his friend agreed with a bark of laughter.
I slid onto a bar stool, careful to leave an empty stool between us.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, sliding a beverage napkin and small white bowl full of Goldfish crackers toward me.
“Gin and tonic, please,” I decided.
“Put her drink on our tab,” the dark-haired man said, leaning across the bar to get the bartender’s attention.
“No, that’s okay,” I demurred.
“I insist,” he said, waving my objections away.
“Oh…well, thanks,” I said, accepting the tall, sweating glass from the bartender. I took a sip and winced. It was a bit heavy on the gin.
“Are you here on vacation?” the blond man asked.
I nodded.
“Us too. Came down on a fishing trip. Left the wives and kids behind,” the blond man said, and I relaxed. Men who are trying to hit on you, no matter how loaded, normally don’t bring up their wives. “Where are you from?”
“New Orleans,” I said. My answer, although technically true, felt artificial.
“No kidding! The Big Easy, huh? I was down there for a bar convention two years ago. I got so drunk on those…whadyacallems, hurricanes, I don’t know how I got back to my hotel. I spent the night praying at the porcelain altar,” the dark-haired man said, guffawing at the memory. “I’m Larry, by the way. My friend here is Ray.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kate,” I said. “So…you’re a lawyer?”
“We both are. We’re partners. We have a med malpractice in Grand Rapids,” Ray said.
“I’m in law school,” I admitted. “I go to Tulane.”
“Great school,” Larry said. “I wish I’d gone there; what a blast that would have been.”
“You’d have failed out the first semester,” Ray said.
“Yeah, probably. Ha! I would have ended up blowing all of my tuition money down at the French Quarter,” Larry replied.
I shook my head. “I think it’s pretty much like going to law school anywhere. You spend most of your time in the library.”
“Yeah, those were the days,” Ray said fondly.
“Are you crazy? It’s awful!” I exclaimed.
“You don’t know what awful is. Just wait until you start practicing. I’d rather be a law student than a law-firm associate any day. At least when you’re in school you get to see daylight once in a while,” Larry said. “When I was an associate, a whole week would go by when I didn’t see my wife awake. I’d leave for work before she got up in the morning and get back after she’d gone to bed.”
“I missed the birth of my son,” R
ay said.
“You did?” I asked. “Why?”
“I was stuck at a deposition in Lansing, with no one to cover it.” He chuckled, and gave Larry a sideways glance. “Maribeth was pissed.”
“I bet. How’d you dig your way out of that one?” Larry asked.
“She got the new car she’d been wanting; I got to keep my testicles. All in all, I think it was a good trade,” Ray said, and they both guffawed.
“But now that you’re partners it’s better, right?” I asked.
Larry looked at me, the smile sliding from his face. He shrugged. “I guess. I know a lot of guys—and gals, excuse me—who are good at what they do and who earn a shitload of money. But I don’t know anyone who actually enjoys it.”
“You just live for the time off. And the satisfaction that you’re providing for your family,” Ray said, falling into the same melancholic state as his friend.
“Would you want your boy to go into the practice?” Larry asked.
“Hell no,” Ray said. “I’m trying to talk him into going to business school.”
“But the whole point of having a law degree is the security—it means that you’ll always be able to get a job, you’ll always be able to make a living,” I said. I wasn’t able to keep the shrill note of panic from my voice.
“Hey, honey,” Graham said, walking up behind me. He was wearing a linen shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and his hair was still damp from the shower. Unlike me, he looked fantastic. Graham slid a protective arm around my waist, which I knew was meant to discourage Ray and Larry from any plans they might have to hit on me.
I introduced Graham to my new acquaintances. “They’re lawyers,” I explained. “They were telling me about their practice.”
“Let me give you some unsolicited advice,” Ray said. “Get out now, while you still can.”
And even though he smiled as he said it and held his margarita up in a mock toast, there was a desperate note in his voice that made me shiver.
On our last day of vacation, my luggage showed up. Finally dressed like a normal person, I went into town alone to browse through the tourist shops, where I bought T-shirts for my aunt and cousins and a perfect pink conch shell. Graham was by the pool, lying on a chaise longue and baking in the sun when I got back. He was bare-chested and slicked with oil, and I was struck by what good shape he was in. He smiled when he saw me, squinting up, one hand shading his eyes.
“That’s some hat,” he said.
I touched the brim of the pink sunhat I was wearing.
“I have a fair complexion,” I explained.
“Do you have on sunblock?”
“SPF sixty-five.”
Graham laughed. “That should do it,” he said.
“You should put some on,” I said.
“I have some oil on,” Graham said, pointing to the tube of SPF 4 lying on the ground next to his chaise.
“SPF four? I didn’t even know they made it that low anymore,” I said, dropping in the chaise longue next to him. “You’re going to get skin cancer.”
“You worry too much.” Graham stood up and kissed me. He smelled like coconut oil. “Want to go for a swim with me?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m going to sit here with the new issue of Vogue, and maybe even get one of those tropical drinks that come with a little umbrella,” I said, stretching out contentedly.
Graham waded into the water and then dove in with a splash. When he popped out, his hair was plastered down against his scalp, and his legs and red swim trunks were warped by the water, making him look like a Picasso painting. I saw two women, sitting at a table on the opposite side of the pool, watching him. One whispered something to the other, and they both giggled, never taking their eyes off my boyfriend. They were pretty, but in a hard, artificial way, and both wore tiny little bikinis to show off their surgically enhanced bodies. But Graham didn’t notice them. He swam a few laps, his arms cutting capably through the water, and then he stood up at the shallow end, shaking his head like a dog.
“Kate, you should come in, the water’s fantastic,” he called out to me. I waved at him but shook my head.
“No, thanks. I’m in the middle of an article about fall hemlines,” I said. “It’s riveting stuff.”
Graham laughed, and recommenced his laps. I glanced at the implant twins, who were pouting that he hadn’t paid them any attention and were now eyeing me jealously. I just smiled at them from behind my magazine.
That night we went down to the rocky beach to watch the sunset. It was fabulous, a symphony of pinks and corals, smudgy grays and pastel purples. Graham slid his arms around me, and for the first time since we’d gotten to Florida, I relaxed back against him. The gorgeous sunset, the white-capped waves roaring in toward us, the warmth of Graham’s chest…it was perfect, right out of a vacation brochure.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” Graham said.
“What’s that?”
I felt Graham’s hand move away from me as he reached into his pocket. And then he was holding an object out in front of me. I looked at it, confused.
A ring box.
“Will you marry me?” Graham’s voice was a low, warm buzz in my ear. I took the box in my hands and opened it up.
The ring was beautiful. Three princess-cut diamonds in a platinum setting, a large stone flanked by two smaller ones. With shaking hands, I pulled the ring out of its white satin box. The diamonds winked and glittered up at me.
It was heavier than I thought it would be.
I was quiet. A pelican soared just over the water, trailing his wings slightly against the wake. The sun continued to sink down toward the horizon. Graham wrapped his arms tighter around me and nuzzled his nose into the curve of my neck.
“You’re the one, Kate,” he said, so softly, I could just barely hear him over the surf. “I love you.”
I turned and snaked my arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly and burying my head against his chest. I kissed the triangle of skin bared by his polo shirt. He tasted of sunlight and salt.
I could see our life together unfolding so clearly, I could almost touch it. We’d have two blond children we’d take to the beach in the summer, and Graham and I would sit on low folding chairs, our hands clasped together absentmindedly, while we watched our kids romp around on the sand. Every Christmas we’d get a big tree, and the scent of evergreen would mix with the cinnamon from the holiday baking. We’d have a glass of wine together in the evenings and talk about our days. On weekends we’d plant flower beds and go out to dinner.
It would be a good life, a sturdy life.
A safe life.
I’d be a fool to pass it up.
I looked up. Graham’s face was close to mine, so close that I could see the web of faint lines by his eyes and the small mole on his right cheek.
“Yes,” I said softly. And I slipped the ring on my finger.
Chapter Twenty
Late Sunday morning, we drove back up to the Miami airport and caught our respective flights to Arizona and New Orleans. I made it back in time to meet the others for our weekly study group at the Rue, but I decided to pass. The last person I wanted to see was Nick. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to see him again without remembering what he’d looked like leaning back on his couch, wearing only a T-shirt.
With everything down below sort of…hanging out.
No, I thought fiercely. No more thinking of Nick, naked or otherwise.
I was too restless to study, so I drove over to Armstrong’s house. The windows were dark, and his car wasn’t in the driveway. I rang the bell—the William Tell Overture rang out, making it sound like the Lone Ranger was galloping through the house—and when Armstrong didn’t answer, I let myself in with the key he’d given me.
When I walked in, Elvis the Guard Dog was asleep in the front hall, lying on his back with his feet sticking straight up. I’d never seen a dog sleep like that before, but Elvis could hold the position for hours.
&nb
sp; “Hi, Elvis. Don’t worry, I’m not here to rob the place,” I said.
Elvis opened one eye, looked at me blearily, and then farted.
“Lovely,” I said.
I headed upstairs to Armstrong’s office and settled in to my work. We’d finally started on the book research, and since I worked irregular hours, Armstrong had gotten in the habit of leaving me a list of the articles he wanted me to pull off the Internet and skim for content. Elvis followed me up the stairs and found the climb so exhausting, he collapsed on one of the leather sofas with a loud sigh.
The work was interesting, but not grueling, and I felt my stress begin to melt away as I fell into the rhythm of reading through the research. The only distraction was Elvis’s constant gas. It got so bad, I finally had to throw open the French doors that led onto the second-floor balcony to air the room out.
“What has Armstrong been feeding you? Baked beans?” I asked Elvis.
“Butter pecan ice cream,” Armstrong said from the doorway. “Never again. He’s been windy for two days now.”
I hadn’t heard Armstrong come in, and the interruption startled me. I shrieked and threw my pen up into the air.
Armstrong raised his eyebrows. “Heavens, child, if you keep that up, the neighbors are going to call the police.”
“You scared me,” I said.
“So I gathered,” Armstrong said.
It was only then that I noticed that Armstrong was swaying from side to side, and he was slurring his words. I looked at him more closely. Definitely drunk. His eyes were red and unfocused, and his normally impeccable clothing was rumpled. I’d seen the man put away three bourbons straight up on an empty stomach without showing the slightest sign that the alcohol affected him. I couldn’t imagine how much he must have drunk to be swaying and slurring. I glanced at the clock; it was after midnight.
“God, how did it get so late?”
“Time has a way of moving on,” Armstrong said sadly. “One day you’re dancing with David Bowie at Studio 54, and the next you’re an old man living in a whorehouse.”
“You danced with David Bowie?” I asked.
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