Night, Sea, And Stars

by Heather Graham

  As she grabbed her shorts and listened to Kyle and Michael discuss things at home, Skye allowed her eyes to roam over the confines of the hut. They were leaving; it was over. She still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t assimilate that it was possible that in just days she would be walking the streets of Manhattan again, returned to her life.

  As Kyle was returned to his.

  She should be ecstatic. But she was gripped with nostalgia, gripped with pain. The tattered sheets reminded her of their first time together. The walls of the hut gave credence to the number of ways Kyle had cared for her, creating their world, making it livable, allowing her to lean on him, demanding, but offering security and constant protection for the taking.

  She was carrying his child.

  And now the question “What do I do?” had meaning.

  She couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not until her return to civilization was accomplished, not until she could think clearly, decide what would be best.

  I’m going to keep the child. She tried to ignore the voice. She really didn’t know what she was going to do yet. She was so confused. Already Kyle was a complete stranger. His brother was here. Mike Jagger was real, tangible. He spoke of the real, tangible world that was Kyle’s, a world in which she held no place.

  Her eyes lit upon the tortoiseshell comb resting beside the remnant sheet. She picked up the comb, slipped it beneath the T-shirt and into the pockets of the shorts that had once been her crisp beige business suit. Then she collected her canvas bag and long ignored purse—normal, useful items once more. There was a real world. She closed her eyes, turned, and left the hut. “I’m ready,” she told the brothers.

  “Let’s go then,” Kyle said impatiently, taking her arm proprietorially and leading her toward the dinghy. She didn’t attempt to pull away from him, but he felt her stiffen. And earlier he had seen the look in her eyes after Michael’s arrival.

  Kyle was confused himself. He was grateful to see his brother, grateful to know he would soon see Chris, relieved to know that Skye would be safe from those seeking things on the island, safe from further typhoons, safe from any illness that might strike.

  But something else also hurt very badly—made him stiffen, made him withdraw.

  He had seen her eyes.

  And he knew that the magic was over.

  Paradise had been lost.

  Skye and Kyle were both unabashedly kissed by the irascible Ray Thorne. She had to laugh, had to feel welcomed. And then she was being courteously pushed into the ample shower compartment, assured the hot water supply was vast, and being offered a velvety maroon robe that Ray cheerfully informed her belonged to his girl friend. She would find all sorts of soaps and shampoos and “female fodder” that belonged to his girl, Marsha, and that Marsha would be insulted to death if Skye didn’t make full use of anything that she found. Skye had little choice but to grin and to swear solemnly that she would help herself, and to say thanks.

  How odd it felt to bathe with perfumed soap. To feel the richness of the shampoo she lathered into her hair. She appreciated all with base sensation, marveling at the uniqueness of what she hadn’t even realized that she had missed. Did losing the world make one more attuned to all the nuances of it? Of course, that was natural. Natural that she would have to readjust.

  In the large mirrored cabinet over the sink, Skye found a score of toothbrushes. Apparently the Bonne Bree was stocked well for entertainment. Ray Thorne, she ascertained, owned the spacious yacht. And it seemed Ray Thorne, as bohemian as he appeared, was as affluent as his friends the Jaggers.

  She stared at the toothbrush for a long time, running her fingers over the soft plastic bristles. Of all the things she had missed, this now was luxury—this and the mint taste of the toothpaste.

  How incredible. She was thinking about toothpaste when she was pregnant and the father of her child was already moving into the arms of his family, and she was going to have to see Ted and tell him about it and that she didn’t love him when he had a fleet of ships out searching for her.

  Skye spat out a mouthful of toothpaste and stared at her reflection. She felt ancient, as if they had been on the island years, instead of weeks, aged beyond recognition. She looked pathetically young. Her eyes were still wide—culture shock—and the kindly, invisible Marsha was obviously a more statuesque woman than she as the soft sleeves of the robe covered half her hands and the hemline trailed to her feet. Woodenly, she plugged in a compact blow dryer and worked on her hair, but that didn’t seem to help much either. Her long pale hair falling against the maroon robe was far too innocent for a woman who…

  Who what? she asked herself with annoyance. I didn’t become sultry Sadie in six weeks on an island.

  Skye meticulously picked up after herself and exited to the Bonne Bree’s long hallway. The yacht was quite a vessel, with full-size bedchambers fore and aft. The galley and the center cabin were separated by a spotless Formica cabin, and as she emerged, she found Ray and Mike, still comfortable in cutoffs and sneakers, sipping beer at the varnished cabin table while Kyle sat at the chart desk, making use of the radio. He wasn’t saying much; he was listening. Skye could hear little of what was being said over the static.

  Both Ray and Michael sprang to their feet as they saw her, offering her space at the table. Skye slid in by Michael’s side asking, “What’s going on?” as she inclined her head toward Kyle.

  “He’s gotten through to the Aussies,” Mike explained. “From what I gather so far, they’re requesting we hold our position for the night. They’ll have someone out here tomorrow. What can I get you? The galley is well stocked. Name it, and I think we can come up with it.”

  Skye smiled at his eagerness to please her after her time away from the niceties of civilization. “To tell you the truth, that beer you’re drinking looks just wonderful.”

  Ray hopped to his feet. “A beer it will be.” As he hurried to oblige her, Skye turned back to Michael. “I don’t understand Why should we hold our position?”

  “So that no one attempts to retrieve the gold tonight.”

  The answer came from Kyle. He had left the chart desk and now took Ray’s position at the table, sliding around so that he sat on the other side of Skye. “Once word gets out that we’ve been found— alive and well—someone is going to panic. They’ll know that the Board of Aeronautics will be out soon to pick up the pieces of the plane and report the cause of the crash. That someone will have to make a move quickly. This choice is yours, Skye, but they’ve asked that no one be notified that we’re alive until tomorrow morning. They need a grace period of silence to arrive.”

  Skye stared blankly at him a moment, wishing he hadn’t chosen to sit beside her with his arm casually draped behind her shoulder. She didn’t want to give the Australians a grace period; she wanted to crawl into a hole and pretend she hadn’t been found racing down a beach stark naked.

  Ray graciously set her beer before her. All eyes were on her. She thought of Ted. Knowing for certain that she didn’t love him didn’t ease the poignancy of knowing his pain, how he searched for her, and she thought of Virginia, surely worried sick in Sydney. She thought of how badly she needed to be away from Kyle now that they were no longer a world unto themselves.

  But then she thought of the wonderfully polite and helpful treatment she had always received from the Australian authorities. She thought of Steven, buried on Australian soil. She didn’t want to think that she owed the Australians anything, but she did.

  “Fine,” she said, wishing that her voice didn’t sound so weak. She took a sip of her beer and cleared her throat. “How long will it be before we… before I can get home.”

  “Not long,” Ray supplied cheerfully. “A day from here is a little private island called Igua. It’s kind of a hideaway for the world’s more affluent. Michael flew there to meet me at the boat, so transportation will be waiting. And the Aussies have promised to inform —who is it, your sister-in-law?—first thing in the morning that you’re a
live.”

  Virginia, Skye knew, would immediately notify Ted… She could feel Kyle’s eyes boring into her, but she refused to meet his gaze. What right did he have to condemn her for wanting to be home? He was already with those close to him. She directed her question to Michael. “Isn’t it dangerous for us to sit here?”

  “No.” It was Kyle who replied, and she finally turned to him.

  “But—”

  “We're not defenseless anymore.”

  Skye didn’t like the sound of his voice. It was hard. It held an element of cold steel, and it sent shivers down her spine. It reminded her that he was K.A. Jagger, a man who allowed no quarter.

  “I don’t think there will be anyone appearing,” Michael said quickly, seeming to sense that tension had arisen anew. He hastily changed the subject. “Hey, Ray! I promised the lady a steak, and It's well past noon.” He glanced back to Skye. “How do you like your steak, Miss Delaney.”

  “Medium rare”—she smiled—“and please call me Skye.” It was too absurd for a man who had seen her running in the buff to call her Miss Delaney, she thought wryly.

  “I'm going to hop in the shower while you're cooking,” Kyle told his brother. He rubbed his bearded chin. “Think I ought to keep this awhile, Skye? Or should it go?”

  Skye tensed inwardly, forcing herself to look into his handsome features. There was a cool fire in his eyes, a challenge that she didn’t understand, a hardness to his features… “I’m sure it makes no difference to me,” she responded lightly, turning away with an attempt at nonchalance as she saw a muscle tighten beneath the hair on his cheek. She felt his eyes on her for only a moment, and then he was sliding from the table.

  “Mike, I’ll need something to wear.”

  “Sure,” Mike said quickly, rising to join his brother. “Help yourself, my stuff is aft. In fact, I’ll come along with you and get my stuff out so that you and Skye can have the aft cabin.”

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, Skye thought, a blush covering her face. Michael was assuming there was a relationship that could continue.

  “Good,” Kyle said. “Thanks.”

  Why hadn’t he granted her the dignity of protesting? Skye wondered furiously. She opened her mouth to do so, but snapped it shut. She would sound absolutely ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly deny —not after the scenario Michael had witnessed—that an intimate relationship had existed. But damn, she was being put in an awkward position.

  Sighing, she watched as Kyle and Mike disappeared down the hall. Then she stood with a bright smile for Ray Thorne.

  “What can I do to help you?”

  Mike returned to the galley while Kyle showered and added his efforts to preparing their mid-afternoon dinner. Both men seemed determined to entertain her lavishly, and as time passed, Skye realized she was growing very comfortable. Mike Jagger had none of his brother’s rough edges. He was simply straightforward and charming as he asked about the island and the hardships they had endured. Skye told him about the storm, about the drug runners she had almost hailed, about the morning Kyle had discovered the gold— leaving out all personal details.

  “You’re lucky to be alive," Mike said softly, peeling an onion. “It’s almost a miracle that Kyle was able to land that plane to begin with.”

  Yes, she was lucky to be alive, and she was alive because of Kyle. A shiver rippled through her and she blinked. She had to blink to convince herself that she was on a boat, that she was cooking in a galley, that they had been found.

  It wasn’t so hard to believe, she told herself. She was already at ease with Mike and Ray, comfortable in the soft robe. Had it been only last night that she had slept in the sand, believing there was a possibility she would never see another human again other than Kyle?

  “Kyle is an exceptional pilot,” Mike was continuing. “Probably one of the finest alive.”

  “Yes, I believe that,” Skye said softly. She didn’t want to think of Kyle as a pilot. It was another reminder that today was only an awkward respite.

  Michael and Ray both began to question her about Delaney Designs. For a moment Skye panicked. Delaney Designs. What was that? It had ceased to be real. Searching for food was real. Keeping a wary eye on the water supply was real. Feeling the sun upon her flesh, sand and tangled grass and mangrove roots beneath her feet… Kyle was real

  Skye forced a smile and began to answer their questions. Did she look normal? she wondered. She didn’t feel at all normal. Did she sound sane and reasonably intelligent? She was groping in her memory for particulars. How silly. It had only been six weeks, but six weeks composed of individual days that had been aeons; six weeks in which everything had changed.

  Kyle, freshly shaven, made a reappearance. For a moment his presence, too, made Skye panic. Why? she wondered. Except for the clean line of his jaw, he looked basically the same. He still wore cutoffs—a pair of his brother's that had once been faded jeans. But he also wore a sports shirt, blue knit, with a collar.

  He always moved with assurance, so that wasn’t it, Skye thought as he moved toward the galley, extracting a packet of Michael’s cigarettes from the labeled pocket of the shirt. He laughed as Ray mentioned that he had preferred the beard, helped himself to a beer from the icebox, and hoisted himself to sit comfortably on the counter.

  He has made the transition, Skye thought, and I haven’t. He has come from man on an island with life the necessity to man discovered and back in the life he knows.—his life, his friends, a boat he is familiar with. He is at home.

  He caught her eyes then, and she knew he had sensed her feelings. The look he gave her was a bond that could only ever exist between the two of them, a bond of things shared.

  Skye smiled back tentatively; she ceased to hear the things that were being said around her.

  The day passed pleasantly enough, and Skye became grateful for her own period of grace. Every little thing was a form of adjustment—holding a fork, tasting the red meat, enjoying a cup of brewed coffee after her meal.

  Sitting beside Kyle in company, she was learning not to flinch when he touched her while someone else was present, learning to listen to him talk about Executive Charters, an empire more vast than even she had realized, an empire ruled by two men who sat now in cutoffs, lazy, laughing, so at ease, not executives at all.

  By an apparent unspoken agreement Lisa Jagger was never mentioned. Ray and Michael, Skye decided, were probably accustomed to Kyle’s being with other women. They would have thought it not only odd, but impossible for Kyle not to have formed a relationship with her when she was a female, beautiful and vulnerable and alone with him for all that time.

  “Skye.”

  She dragged herself from retrospection and looked at Kyle. “Your eyes are half closed,” he told her with a gentle smile and a trace of amusement in his eyes. “Go to bed.”

  “I … uh…” She glanced around the table to see that Michael and Ray were also looking at her with gentle smiles. “I’m sorry, I guess I am tired.” She rose, excusing herself, longing to ask Kyle, “Aren’t you coming too?” But she couldn’t ask him. She felt a stupid blush rising simply because the other two men knew she would share a bed with Kyle.

  But again Kyle seemed to sense what went on in her mind. He rose to walk her to the aft cabin, stopping her with his hands on her shoulders as they reached the door. He brushed a quick kiss over her lips. “Go to sleep,” he commanded, and she stiffened slightly at the absolute authority in his voice. “I won’t be in for a while.”

  “Why?” the question formed on her lips.

  “Because we’re all taking a shift on guard duty,” he informed her briefly, twisting the doorknob and ushering her into the bedroom.

  The door closed immediately behind her even though she had other questions, even though he had given her chills with his voice.

  She had been dismissed. And she knew why. On the island survival had decreed that she be a part of everything, that she understand, be informed.

  But now t
hings were different. She had taken the role of cared-for pet again, not partner. Kyle, she knew from the steel of his voice, was hoping the gold thief would appear. He had a personal vendetta.

  His plane had been sabotaged, his life almost taken, her life almost taken.

  And now she was afraid. She didn't like Kyle like that, so furiously cold, ruthless, determined.

  Skye lay down in the ample bed and stared at the teakwood ceiling. She began to pray that the night would be quiet. She could hear the quiet rumble of conversation from the cabin, and she tried to sleep, but the pleasant state of drowsiness had left her. Her mind was back to turmoil. She worried about Kyle and the night, praying the night would end. And then she prayed that the night would never end because the day would bring them back to their individual lives, and they hadn’t talked and she didn’t know if she had been a mere convenience or if Kyle would care for her still when he had his choice of women, and a wife to boot.

  And then there was Ted.

  She finally began to drift in and out of sleep. And then her eyes flew open because she could hear conversation again, clear this time.

  She blinked, as if to clear the sleep fog from her mind, and then ascertained that the speakers were Kyle and Michael, and that they were on deck right above her.

  “You’re going to be in for trouble,” Michael was saying. “I’m telling you, she’s changed her mind.”

  “I really don't give a damn.” Kyle—that voice of steel again. “I will get a divorce, she can’t stop me.”

  There was silence for a second, then Michael again, “Maybe she can’t stop you, but she can tear apart Executive Charters. And she can keep you in court for years and years.”

  “Why the hell is she doing this?” Kyle murmured.

  “She says she loves you.”

  “Lisa loves me?”

  Skye strained to hear more, knowing she was eavesdropping upon a private conversation, but not caring. She hadn't been able to read the tone of the last question; Kyle and Michael had apparently been moving, and they were no longer overhead. Do you care? she wanted to scream, and only by biting down hard on a knuckle could she stop herself. Tears sprang to her eyes. What were you expecting, jerk, she asked herself. A perfect ending? Lisa stepping right out of the picture, Ted kindly granting a blessing, Kyle falling to his knees to say that he did love her dearly above all others, and her telling him that yes, she would be his wife and wasn’t it wonderful, they were going to have a child?