Beachbound

by Junie Coffey

  “Doubt it,” said Danish.

  “It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” said Nina. “Let’s go, Pansy. I’ve got to be back here in a few hours. Philip, I’ve arranged for you to go bonefishing tomorrow morning, as you requested. We’ll meet by the fountain right after the breakfast keynote, all right? We’ll be back in time for the afternoon session on the impact of hotel-room decor on vacation spending.”

  “Fine,” said Philip.

  Really, he was infuriating. Couldn’t he just say thank you? Nina could see why someone would want to off him. But Sylvia? Sylvia seemed to get along with everyone and stayed clear of the petty turf wars that were Philip’s favorite pastime. Nina watched him march up the steps into his half of the bungalow and shut the door firmly.

  “Night, Danish,” said Nina. His love life was his business. She had nothing more to say on the subject.

  She and Pansy strolled back to the parking lot.

  “I wonder what Blue is making of all this,” said Pansy.

  “Mmm,” said Nina. “It’ll be days before he gets the results of any lab tests on blood, if they find any. Or the results from tests to know for sure if Philip ate shellfish, I suppose. He looked tired.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” said Pansy. They were quiet for a moment.

  “So, is Ted taking Philip out fishing tomorrow?” Pansy asked.

  Nina nodded.

  “Sorry about the other night,” said Pansy.

  “That was very nice of you all,” said Nina. They walked on in silence a few steps.

  “So, you and Ted seem to be getting along pretty well,” said Pansy with a giggle.

  “Yes, I guess so,” said Nina. “He’s a nice guy.”

  “Mmm,” said Pansy.

  Ted’s Jeep circled the splashing dolphins fountain in front of the inn at precisely nine o’clock the next morning, coming to a stop beside Nina, Philip, and Sylvia. He had a seventeen-foot Boston Whaler with a folded Bimini top trailered to his Jeep. Sylvia had gotten wind of the planned fishing trip and was enthusiastic about giving it a try.

  “Morning, all,” Ted said as he came around the front of his Jeep. “Hope you’re looking forward to a day of fishing. The boys have been radioing in to say they are biting hard. Should be good.”

  “Yes, about that, Ted,” said Philip confidentially. “I’m wondering if it might be possible to be in a separate boat from Sylvia. You see, she is my bitter ex-wife. One of them, anyway, and I find it rather puts a damper on things to have her within eyesight. In fact, I’m not entirely sure she isn’t trying to kill me.”

  “Philip,” said Sylvia in a bored monotone, looking at her nails. “If it sets your mind at ease, while you were getting your just deserts—or almost getting them, in any case—I was drinking champagne aboard a sailboat captained by a dashing gentleman from South Carolina, who reminded me, yet again, why my life is so much better now that you are just a risible footnote to it. If we’re keeping score, I might also add that some unknown person tried to smother me in my sleep last night. I know it wasn’t you, because you don’t have the . . . nerve for it, shall we say. Nevertheless, I think we’re neck and neck in the attempted-murder category.”

  Philip crossed his arms and turned his back on Sylvia.

  “Sorry, Phil,” said Ted. “It’s two rods to a boat, and Nina has agreed to crew for me today”—he smiled at her—“so that makes the four of us. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Not in the least,” said Sylvia, flashing a smile at Ted. “Philip,” she said in a colder tone, “grow up. You can rest assured, I will not be observing your technique on the water. I’m sure there will be more interesting things to occupy one’s attention out there. Get over yourself, please.” She rolled her eyes at Nina.

  “Oh,” said Philip to Ted, “are you our guide? I thought we were going to have a local guide. I’m not a tourist, you see.” He laughed his fake self-deprecating laugh. “I have a professional interest in authentic island culture and lore. I’m sure Nina’s told you about my work.”

  Nina winced, embarrassed. She knew Ted had given up a rare morning off to take them out as a special favor to her.

  “Well, all the guys are out on the water today. We’ve got a full house at the lodge, so I guess you are stuck with me,” said Ted as he put their bags into the back of the Jeep. “Hop in.”

  “Philip,” said Nina, “Ted has fished his entire life. People travel thousands of miles to come here and fish with him. We’re extremely lucky that he’s taking us out. He knows these islands inside and out.”

  “Yes, Philip,” said Sylvia. “Really. Can you not just let things unfold as they will, for a change, instead of trying to orchestrate everything?” She turned to Ted and smiled. “Ready when you are, Captain.”

  Philip huffed a little and jutted his chin skyward but didn’t say anything else.

  They drove to the same boat ramp Ted and Nina had used the day he had taken her out fishing. It seemed like ages ago, but it was really only a month prior. She and Sylvia watched as Ted expertly backed the Jeep down the boat ramp and unhooked the boat from the trailer. Ted waded into the water, pulling the boat out until it floated free. Philip splashed in after him, grasping the gunwale on the opposite side in an ineffectual effort to help.

  After Ted parked the Jeep in the shade, they waded out to the boat, and he helped them in. He stood with one hand on the wheel and the other on the ignition and looked around to make sure they were all seated before he started the engine and moved slowly away from the dock and through the mangroves.

  It was cool and shady in the channel, but as the mangroves thinned, a vista of brilliant turquoise water and creamy-white sandbars appeared in front of them. Ted opened up the throttle and they flew along the shoreline, the wind whipping their hair. Nina realized that once again she’d forgotten to bring Ted’s hat. She looked over at him. He didn’t look sunburned yet.

  The water grew shallow beneath the boat, and Ted slowed and then stopped. He gently dropped the anchor over the side.

  “This is a promising spot. Let’s give it a try,” he said. He took two rods from the racks running along the gunwale and handed one to Philip and one to Sylvia. He opened a bench and took out his tackle box.

  “Let’s go with a Crazy Charlie,” he said, tying the fly to Sylvia’s line. “Phil, can I give you a hand with that?”

  “I think I can take it from here,” said Philip, fumbling with the fly. “I’m not one of those citified sissies who needs the guide to tie the fly on and cast for me. This place looks like a children’s theme park compared to some of the wild water I fished in Montana last summer.”

  “Sure,” said Ted. “’Though most people find it helpful if we give them a bit of an introduction to saltwater fly-fishing the first day out. It’s a whole different kettle of fish from the freshwater angling you might have done up north.”

  “Kettle of fish. That’s funny,” said Nina, trying to spark a festive mood onboard.

  “I’m from Michigan. Fly-fishing is in my blood. Hardwired,” said Philip. He managed to tie on the fly; then, grasping the rod in his right hand, he maneuvered himself to the bow of the boat. He climbed up onto the deck and looked around, holding the rod at the ready.

  “Hold on a moment, Sylvia, then we’ll get you going. Let’s just let Phil get a few casts in first,” said Ted.

  “Yes, please do,” said Sylvia. “I’m perfectly content to wait my turn.”

  “OK, then, Phil. Let’s see what’s out there today,” said Ted. He stood still with his hands on his hips, scanning the flats through the polarized lenses of his shades. Several quiet moments passed.

  “There. Twelve o’clock. Thirty feet,” said Ted quietly. “They’re tailing near that mangrove. Cast your line.”

  “Got it,” said Philip, raising his arm and cracking the long rod like a bullwhip above his head three times in rapid succession before letting the fly drop to the water’s surface. The line whipped back and forth over their
heads, the barbed fly pinging off the metal frame of the Bimini top and the gunwales of the boat. Nina, Sylvia, and Ted flattened themselves against the deck until the barrage ended. When they raised their heads, Philip was standing serenely on the prow of the boat, his chin up, looking rather pleased with himself.

  “There. What did I tell you? First cast. On the money.” He stood motionless, watching the surface of the water expectantly, waiting for the fish to bite while the line slowly sank in the water. Even Nina, who’d only been fishing once in her life, knew that wasn’t how you did it.

  “Good God, Philip!” said Sylvia. “You almost harpooned us!”

  “Phil, I’d ask you to be careful when you false-cast,” said Ted calmly.

  “What do you mean, ‘false-cast’? That was bang-on.”

  Ted paused for a second, looking at him.

  “What I mean is, throw your line from shoulder height, like this,” he said, taking a rod from the rack and deftly demonstrating a cast. The line zipped off the reel.

  “You don’t want the line circling back behind you, maybe hooking someone,” Ted said. Out of habit, he pulled the line in slowly, foot by foot, stripping it in with his hand and reeling up the slack, playing the fly like a shrimp—the bonefish’s preferred delicacy. Philip watched Ted’s hands surreptitiously for a moment, then imitated his movements.

  “Why don’t you show me how to do it,” said Sylvia to Ted. “You’ll find I am a much more pliable pupil.”

  “Of course,” said Ted. He showed Sylvia how to cast and threw the line out for her several times until she hooked a fish.

  “I’ve got one!” she squealed.

  “OK now, Sylvia. Take it easy. Let it run. Good. Now bring in the line like this. Good. Keep the tip of your rod up. Good. You’re doing great,” murmured Ted. The long, slender silverfish came to the surface near the boat. Ted slipped over the side of the boat into the thigh-deep water and cradled it gently in his hands for her to see.

  “Good job, Sylvia,” he said with a grin. “It’s a beaut.”

  “It’s gorgeous! Here, Nina, will you take a photo of me, my fish, and the handsome fishing guide? I want to send it to all my friends!” said Sylvia, pulling her cell phone out of one of the many pockets in her new fishing vest and handing it to Nina. She smiled for the camera.

  “Fabulous!” she said.

  Ted gently removed the hook from the fish’s mouth and released it into the crystal-clear water. It was gone in a fraction of a second. Philip stood silently on the deck at the bow of the boat. Nina could feel his discontent, which was visible in his tightly pursed lips.

  “Well, thank you so much, Ted,” said Sylvia. “Now I can say I’ve bonefished—is that really a verb?—with the best in the business on a spectacular day in the islands. Fantastic. But it’s rather a lot of work, so I think I’ll just relax and enjoy the scenery from here on in.” She fished two bottles of orange juice out of the cooler, offered one to Nina, and with a contented sigh, settled down beside her on the bench in the shade of the Bimini top.

  Philip continued to cast authoritatively but fruitlessly up at the front of the boat. His movements telegraphed his growing frustration.

  “Have a seat,” said Ted. “We’ll try another spot.”

  He started the engine and the boat gathered speed, skimming over the surface of the turquoise water and leaving a wake of pure-white froth.

  The speed of the boat and the wind in her face were exhilarating, and Nina smiled, despite Philip.

  Ted steered the boat in a wide arc around a sandy point of land and into a shallow circular cove rimmed with white sand and low cabbage palms. The sunlight reflected off the tops of the palms’ shiny emerald-green fronds. He cut the engine.

  “Throw out the anchor, please, Nina?” he said.

  She scrambled to her feet and chucked the anchor overboard. She looked over the side. The water was only about two feet deep over a sandy bottom. A stubble of sparse turtle grass covered the bottom. Among the gently waving sea blades, Nina could see little circles in the sand. A sign that bonefish had been feeding here.

  From its cradle along the gunwale, Ted picked up a long aluminum pole and kicked off his boots. He sprang up on the raised deck of the boat and scanned the surface of the water in silence, holding the pole motionless in his hands for several long moments, the sunlight reflecting off the gold rims of his aviator shades. Then he stuck the end of the pole in the sand and leaned on it, pushing the boat around until they were facing the direction they had come from. Nina could see the muscles in his forearms and calves straining beneath his deeply tanned skin.

  “OK, Phil. They’re over there. Nine o’clock. Forty feet,” he said, gesturing with his chin. “Cast off the port side.”

  Philip didn’t move.

  “Cast off the port side. The left-hand side of the boat. At nine o’clock.”

  Philip made several frantic casts, each one landing only a short distance from the boat.

  “Hold on,” said Ted. “I’ll get us a little closer.” He motioned to Nina to haul up the anchor, then poled the boat forward, toward the school of fish he’d spotted. He stopped, and Nina dropped the anchor gently over the side. Ted climbed softly down from the raised platform and gestured for Philip to come stand beside him.

  “OK now. They are really close. Short-cast them,” he said in a hushed voice. Nina didn’t dare move.

  Philip wound up and threw his line out hard. It squealed off the reel and landed a good distance out. He pulled it in foot by foot as he had seen Ted do. The soggy bit of pink fluff on the end of his line came out of the water without a fish on the end of it, again. He turned to Ted.

  “This water is fished too hard. There are no fish left,” he said petulantly.

  “You lined the fish,” said Ted. “If you throw the line over the fish, it spooks them. That’s why I told you to short-cast.”

  “You brought us too close. You spooked them. I can’t make a decent cast when we are sitting right on top of them like that,” said Philip testily.

  “Well, you can’t long-cast either, it seems,” Ted replied calmly. “Don’t worry. It takes a bit of time to get the hang of it. Just enjoy the ride, and you’ll get there eventually.”

  He poled them around again, scanning the horizon. He maneuvered the boat into position, straining against the pole.

  “All right. Off the starboard side. The right side. Three o’clock. About a hundred feet out.”

  Philip scrambled up to the bow. He threw his line out. The breeze caught it and blew the fly back toward him. It caught on his multipocketed fishing vest. Ted stepped forward to help Philip untangle his line and detach the hook.

  “OK, Phil. May I give you a little tip? You’re right-handed, correct?” Ted asked. Philip nodded. “So, I have positioned the boat so that you can cast directly out from the starboard side, not across your body, like you have just done. Try it. You’ll find it much easier.”

  “Ted, I took an advanced fly-fishing workshop in Pennsylvania a few years ago with Hook Dobson, the fly-fishing legend. Have you heard of him?”

  “Sure,” said Ted.

  “Yes, well. Hook Dobson told us to do it this way,” said Philip.

  “Is that so?” said Ted. “When he was down here a couple of months ago, he spent a whole night on my front porch arguing the exact opposite, and when I saw him at the sportsman’s show in Maryland last week, he was all excited about some new technique he’d picked up in Patagonia. But that’s Hook for you, eh? A contrarian by nature and inclination. He’d argue the moon was made of Swiss cheese until the sun came up, just for the exercise. Don’t get discouraged, Phil. Like I said, saltwater fly-fishing is another game altogether. Keep at it. It rewards the dedicated.”

  They slogged away in the sunshine for another half hour or so, then Ted pointed the boat toward home and they flew back to the dock. Philip didn’t say anything on the ride home, and after saying a curt “Thank you” to Ted in front of the inn, he strode
away with his head down.

  “I’m afraid you had to work awfully hard this morning, Ted,” said Sylvia. “But thank you so much. I enjoyed the lesson immensely.” She waved goodbye and went up the front steps of the inn and into the bar. Nina watched her go, then turned to Ted.

  “I’m so sorry, Ted,” said Nina. “I should’ve known it would be like that.”

  He chuckled.

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s just a garden-variety know-it-all. We deal with several of those each season. Comes with the territory.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the lodge.”

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. His lips were silky soft. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, and walked around the front of his Jeep to climb in the driver’s seat. She waved goodbye as he steered the boat trailer around the fountain and down the long driveway to the main road.

  When? she wondered, and sighed.

  She went slowly up the front steps of the inn to sit through a presentation entitled “Who Needs Paris? Hallucinogenic Holidays and Zero-Carbon Mind Trips” to be given by a professor from Danish’s alma mater, the Boulder College of the Healing Arts. She ran into Bridget in the lobby, and a thought occurred to her.

  “Bridget, did you see anything from the rooftop of your villa last night? Any activity around Sylvia’s bungalow?” she asked.

  “No, the police asked me that, too, but I went out to supper at The Redoubt with some of my housemates. I ran into Les there and, well, you know. . .” She giggled. “I didn’t get back here until this morning. Don’t tell my grandmother.”

  That’s an alibi for Bridget for last night, and a dead end on Sylvia’s attacker, thought Nina as they went into the conference presentation together. Perhaps not surprisingly, Danish was sitting in the front row. He sidled up to Nina at the refreshment table during the coffee break.

  “Howdy, Nina. Professor Watson’s great, eh? I took Intro to Medicinal Plants from him back in the day. Got a B+. My brownies didn’t rise. I forgot to add the baking powder.”