by Jane Heller
“You’re criticizing my wedding business?”
“Yes, if you can call it a business.” I was being cruel, sure, but I had to get a rise out of her. The trouble was, she wasn’t rising.
“I’m sorry if I wasn’t supportive of your career, Deborah,” she said. “As your older sister, I should have been.”
“Sorry? What is all this sorry?” Obviously, I wasn’t being cruel enough. “And then there’s poor Norman,” I said. “Look what a mess you’ve made of his life.”
“Poor Norman?” Her nostrils flared. There was fire in the old girl yet.
“Yes, Sharon. You haven’t exactly been a model mother.”
“What?” She looked horrified. “Don’t you ever talk to me about being a mother.”
“What’s the matter? Does the truth hurt?” I said, egging her on. “You know damn well that your dead-end relationships have been devastating to his emotional health.”
“How dare you tell me how to raise my son!” she said indignantly. “You’re a lonely spinster who couldn’t produce a child unless you went to one of those sperm banks and had them inject you with a turkey baster.”
“Is that so?” I said. “Well, I’d take a turkey baster over any of your ex-husbands, speaking of turkeys.”
That did it. She batted Barry’s arm away and slapped me across the face.
On cue, I hauled off and slapped her across the face.
Then she slapped me.
Then I slapped her.
Then she slapped me.
Then I slapped her.
Then we got more inventive.
She pulled my hair. “You jealous, pathetic—”
I kicked her in the shins. “You controlling, whining—”
Barry, meanwhile, was waving his gun wildly, hurling obscenities at us, and bobbing and weaving to stay out of our way.
He did not succeed.
“Why you—” Sharon reared back to sock me in the jaw but she swung high, I ducked, and the punch landed squarely and forcefully on Barry’s Adam’s apple (Sharon was short, remember), sending him sailing over the railing.
“Oh my God!” she cried as we leaned over the side of the yacht, in time to watch the body hit the water. “I killed him!”
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “He’ll float around for a few minutes and then the police will fish him out.”
“So I didn’t commit a crime or anything?”
“No. You defended us, Sharon. That must be very empowering for you.” I figured I’d let her take the credit. I knew who had saved whom.
She fluffed her hair. “Yes, it is empowering, now that you mention it. I got to feel like I killed him, even though I didn’t kill him. Of course, he deserves to die. I certainly wouldn’t be crushed if he died.”
“Neither would I. By the way, I didn’t mean to insult you before. I hope you won’t hold a grudge.”
“Insult me? How about the slapping and kicking and hair-pulling?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, period. I was just pretending—trying to get you mad, so you’d knock Barry—” I stopped, exhaustion setting in when I imagined the long explanation that was necessary. “The important thing is, I think you’re a terrific businesswoman and a wonderful mother.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
“I appreciate that, Deborah. But how about when you called me a ditz? Were you pretending then too?”
“You know, we should talk about that some other time,” I suggested. “Now, we should congratulate ourselves for surviving this ordeal. Let’s wave goodbye to Barry and go tell Ray what’s happened.”
Sharon and I peered over the railing. Barry was making a big splash, his arms and legs flailing in all directions.
“Boy, he wasn’t kidding about the water here. It really is gorgeous,” she remarked.
“As clear as glass,” I commented. “I can see the sharks swimming around, just the way he said. As a matter of fact, they’re swimming around him.”
“So much for Barry then,” she replied.
“So much for Barry,” I agreed. “Pass the tartar sauce.”
Chapter Thirty
Ray was transported by helicopter to Princess Margaret Hospital in downtown Nassau. The bullet from Barry’s gun had only grazed his upper thigh and the wound required stitches, not surgery, thank God, but he was advised to remain in the hospital overnight, where he was being given fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers, intravenously.
“It finally dawned on me that you’re Deborah’s carpenter,” Sharon said as the two of us sat on either side of Ray’s bed, taking turns fussing over him.
“I’m Deborah’s carpenter, all right,” he said, gazing at me with tender, loving eyes. Groggy, Demerol-induced eyes.
“My sister’s a lucky girl,” said Sharon. “She’s actually found a man who isn’t a shit.”
Ray smiled. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he said, then conked out, not to be heard from again for the rest of the night.
Not that his heavy slumber kept me from talking to him, from pouring out my heart to him. Soon after he had fallen asleep, after Sharon had tiptoed out of the room to let us have some privacy, I told him how much he meant to me. It was easy to say “I love you,” knowing he couldn’t hear me, knowing he couldn’t tease me, knowing he couldn’t say or do anything that would cause me to doubt my feelings for him. We had been through a lot together during the course of our brief friendship, and while I had fantasies of moving into his house on Seminole Street and settling into a life of domestic bliss with him, I was fully aware that I should practice what I’d preached to Sharon; that jumping into a new relationship may be romantic, exciting, dramatic, but it isn’t always smart.
At some point, while I was sitting at Ray’s bedside, contemplating my future, I fell asleep. Sharon woke me, gently shaking my shoulder, and suggested that we go back to Reggie’s. (By this time, she had heard all about Reggie and Sabrina and Serena and the role they had played in her rescue, and was eager to meet them.)
“Ray wants you to get some rest,” she said, attempting to coax me out of his room.
“How can you tell?” I said. “He’s out cold.”
“I can tell from the way he looks at you when he isn’t out cold,” she said. “He’s got it bad, Deborah.”
“You think so?”
She nodded. “I’ve been married three times with a dozen more near-misses. None of them ever looked at me like he looks at you. Does that answer your question?”
I rose from my chair and hugged her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m kind of crazy about Ray myself, but I’m not rushing into anything.”
“Neither am I,” she said. “Ever again.”
I smiled. “Can I have that in writing?”
Before we left the hospital, the policeman who had interviewed us after coming aboard the yacht updated us on Barry’s condition. (He, too, was in the hospital, recovering from a couple of shark bites and an irregular heartbeat.) The officer also filled us in on Barry’s arrest.
It turned out that while Reggie had, indeed, summoned the police when Ray and I hadn’t shown up at the entrance to the Yacht Club at ten o’clock, Detective Gillby had summoned them too and asked them to issue what’s called a provisional arrest warrant.
“The U.S. has an extradition treaty with the Bahamas,” he explained, his manner formal but not unfriendly. “Which means that your law enforcement officers contact us if someone living or staying in our country is under arrest in the States, and we incarcerate the person here. Four to six weeks later, after the papers have been filed with the embassy and the International Extradition Department of Justice, both in Washington, D.C., a U.S. marshal flies down to get the prisoner and brings him back to the U.S., in this case, to Miami. He is then transferred to your local district to await trial.”
“So Barry will be licking his wounds in your jail for a while,” Sharon mused. “He should enjoy that.”
“Did Detective Gillby in
dicate what prompted the warrant for Mr. Shiller?” I asked, still puzzled by the timing of Gillby’s decision to move forward with an arrest.
“What I have been told is that Mr. Shiller is wanted for the murders of two Florida residents, a doctor and a nurse, and that it was a letter found in the nurse’s bank—in a safety deposit box—that implicated Mr. Shiller in the two homicides.”
“A letter,” I repeated.
“It must have been one of those ‘If something happens to me, the person responsible is... blah blah blah,’” said Sharon.
“Must have been,” I agreed.
“Now, I’d be happy to escort you both to your lodgings,” said the policeman. “And if there’s anything else I can do—”
“There is,” Sharon interrupted. “All my luggage is at Mr. Shiller’s house in Lyford Cay.”
“I will see that it is delivered to you by noon tomorrow,” he said agreeably.
“By noon?” Sharon said, incredulous. “I’ve got three Louis Vuitton bags sitting in that place. I need my clothes, not to mention my jewelry, my medications, and, most importantly, my makeup. I can’t go out in public without foundation.”
“You can wear a veil,” I said, then told the policeman to take us away.
Reggie and Sabrina and Serena were up waiting for us when we arrived at Reggie’s Bahamian Inn at close to midnight. Sharon extended her hand to each of them, as if she were the queen and they her loyal subjects, and thanked them for their part in the rescue operation.
“It was your sister’s idea, my lady,” said Sabrina. “We just helped.”
“My sister is very creative,” said Sharon. “She used to write for a soap opera.”
I smiled at her, at the pride in her voice when she spoke of me, at the lack of an edge in her voice. Maybe good things really do come out of every evil, I thought.
“You must be hungry as well as tired,” Reggie said to us.
“Famished,” said Sharon.
“Starving,” I said, remembering with longing the two shrimp I’d swiped at the seafood buffet.
“We’ll bring you some dinner from the restaurant next door,” Sabrina offered. “They’re closed, but we know the owners. They’ll make up something for you.”
“That would be divine, Sabrina,” said Sharon. “Perhaps you could deliver the dinners to our rooms. If I don’t lie down soon, I’m going to fall down.”
“What rooms are you talking about, Sharon?” I said. “They only had one room available when Ray and I checked in, and he and I were planning to share it. I guess you and I will be sharing it now.”
“One room?” she said, looking put out.
“One bed,” I said and marched her up the stairs.
“This is it?” she said when I opened the door.
“Yup. There’s a king-sized bed, see? Plenty of room for the two of us.”
“Yes, but where’s the bathroom? And what’s with the curry?” She wrinkled her nose.
“The bathroom is in the hall. The curry is from the restaurant down the street. Look, this isn’t Lyford, Sharon, but it’s going to have to do.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I’m acting like a princess. I should be grateful that I’m still breathing, although I’m not thrilled about having to wear an expensive Versace dress to sleep.”
“I’ll lend you a T-shirt.”
After we had changed our clothes, there was a knock on the door. Serena was standing there with a tray on which she had placed napkins, utensils, bottled water and two glasses, and two dinner plates covered with aluminum foil.
“Oh, Serena. You’re so thoughtful to bring us these,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough for what you and your family have done.”
“Yes, you can, my lady,” she said. “You can tip us very generously upon your check-out.”
I said I would and closed the door. Sharon and I sat at the foot of the bed and devoured our curried chicken with rice and peas in five minutes flat.
“That wasn’t bad,” she said. “Or am I so tired I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
“It wasn’t bad. And you’re so tired you wouldn’t be able to tell.” I laughed.
After we visited the bathroom (Sharon wasn’t crazy about touching the community bar of soap, let alone using it, and she was “positively lost,” she said, without her unwaxed dental floss), we got into bed and turned out the lights.
Naturally, the second we closed our eyes, the British couple started yammering and the German couple started arguing, and the walls were so thin between the rooms that sleep was out of the question. As a result, we lay there wide awake in the dark, back to back under the covers, as far apart as we could get without falling off the bed.
“Deborah?” said Sharon.
“Yes?”
“Do you ever think about Daddy?”
“Sure. Do you?”
“All the time. I miss him. But then I missed him even when he was alive.”
“I know. He was a great guy but a little distant.”
“He acted less distant with you.”
“Only because I turned myself inside out to make him laugh. When he laughed, he was there, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes, but he never laughed at my jokes. I once asked him why, and he said it was because my personality was different than yours, that I was more serious. He said we were both special children, but I was convinced he loved you more.”
“Sharon.” I flipped over in the bed. I was now staring at the back of her head. “I was just as hungry for his love as you were.”
“You were?”
“Of course. Even Mom wished he were more demonstrative.”
“How do you know?”
“She always had that look, as if she yearned for more but would rather die than ask for it. I suppose that’s why she feels so liberated since the heart attack. She almost did die. Now she seems to have decided that she’d better grab someone who is demonstrative, before it’s too late.”
“You’re referring to this Fred person she’s dating.”
“He’s a sweetheart, Sharon. Not a matinee idol, but a kind, decent, accessible man.”
“Good. She deserves to be happy.”
“We all do.”
“That’s true. After this thing with Barry, I see that I let my relationship with Daddy turn me into a needy, desperate woman. I’m through with that, Deborah. I’m not chasing men anymore. I’m going to concentrate on my family and my work—and my clothes and hair.”
I laughed.
She shushed me.
“What?”
“Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. Our neighbors have finally taken a break.”
“Hallelujah! Maybe we can actually get some sleep.”
I rolled over to my original position in my corner of the mattress and closed my eyes. But Sharon wasn’t finished.
“I’m really excited for you, Deborah. About Ray, I mean.”
“Thanks. I know you’ll find someone too, Sharon. When the time comes.”
“When do you think the time will come?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Soon, Sharon. Soon. Let’s go to sleep, okay?”
She yawned. “Goodnight, Deborah.”
“Goodnight.”
I reached my arm out across the bed and made contact with her bony little hip. I let my hand rest there.
“Lovyu,” she mumbled, her face in the pillow.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Love you,” she said only slightly more audibly.
“Love you too,” I said and drifted off.
Chapter Thirty-one
By one o’clock on Monday afternoon, Sharon had gotten her luggage, Reggie, Sabrina, and Serena had gotten their tips, and Ray had gotten sprung from the hospital. He was told to stay off his feet for a week or so, until his stitches were removed, but, with the aid of a cane and his two extremely solicitous traveling companions, he managed to make it on and off the pl
ane without great difficulty.
After the Lincoln Town Car picked us up at the airport in Fort Lauderdale, we headed straight for Boca, to drop Sharon off at her house. As the limo was pulling up to the gate, Ray remarked that Broken Sound, her upscale golf community, reminded him of BallenIsles, his brother’s upscale golf community.
“I should fix you and Doug up,” he said offhandedly. “You’d probably get along great.”
Before I could muzzle him—hadn’t Sharon pledged to go manless, at least for a little while?—she leaned over me in the backseat of the car, grabbed his hand, and, unable to keep herself from drooling, said, “You have a brother?”
“Sure, didn’t Deborah tell you?” said Ray as we wound our way to Sharon’s driveway. “His name’s Doug. He’s the ‘Douglas’ in Douglas’s Menswear. You’ve probably seen his stores.”
“Seen them? My ex-husband Lester used to shop in them. Before he switched to women’s clothes, that is.”
Ray glanced at me.
“Don’t ask,” I said.
“So that Douglas is your brother?” Sharon persisted.
“One and the same,” said Ray. “You and he have a lot in common, now that I think about it.”
I buried my head in my hands.
“Like what?” asked Sharon. We had already arrived at her house, and the driver was in the process of unloading the trunk and depositing her luggage on her front steps, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not now.
“Well, you both live in fancy golf communities,” said Ray. “You both run your own businesses. You’re both divorced with teenaged sons.”
“Douglas has a son Norman’s age?” she said, fluffing her hair.
Ray nodded proudly. “Phil’s a freshman at Duke. Good school. Good kid.”
“My, isn’t that nice,” Sharon mused. “Does your brother look like you, Ray?”
“No, he looks like me,” I said impatiently. “Look, Sharon, I really want to get Ray back to Stuart. He should be in bed. You understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, gathering her handbag and sweater. “I know I’ve thanked you two a million times for everything you did, but here comes a million-and-one: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” She kissed me, then Ray, and exited the car. “Goodbye!” she called out through our open window, blowing us more kisses.