“What’s that?” asks Emily, who’s been watching almost as intently as Adam. “Lip Plumper? Du Wop Lip Venom? Tabasco sauce? I hear it puffs up your lips just as well as the stuff you buy at Sephora.”
“Just Chapstick.” Angelina proudly traces a finger around her sumptuous lips. “These babies are all natural.”
“Please tell me. I’m dying for lips like yours. You must have one secret to share,” begs Emily. I’m guessing Angelina’s sexy lip secret involves sucking exercises, but I don’t say anything.
Scuba master Nick is now keenly interested, too, though it seems to be my daughter’s lips that he’s staring at. On the one hand, I’m proud that in his eyes, Emily outshines the star. But on the other, I hope he realizes that all Emily sucks is Popsicles.
“I don’t know what’s so good about having a fat lip. I remember when we all wanted to be thin-lipped blondes like Christie Brinkley,” I say.
“Who’s she?” asks Emily.
Who’s Christie Brinkley? How quickly those fifteen minutes fade. “We used to think she was the most dazzling woman in the whole world,” I tell them. But times have changed, and today she’d never make the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Forget her stunningly slim, straight All-American style. Now you need Angelina lips, Gisele Bündchen curls and curves, and a J.Lo butt.
“A lesson for you,” I say, the voice of mature reason. “Remodel yourself to look like today’s idols, and in a few years you’ll be as out of style as Frye boots.”
“I love Frye boots,” says Emily.
“Me, too,” reports Angelina. “I have five pair.”
I sigh. If the cowboy craze has come back in style, maybe there’s hope for my thin lips. Everything goes in cycles.
But if I thought Kevin’s affection for me would be cycling back, I don’t see it happening any time soon.
“Into the ocean, gorgeous,” Kevin says, strolling over, and I know he’s not talking to me. He coos to Angelina as he adjusts the mask over her eyes and nose and helps her ease into the water. He has an expensive underwater video camera slung around his neck, which isn’t surprising. If you’re spending time scuba diving with Angelina Jolie, you want to be able to prove it.
The kids are on the other side of the boat now, getting ready for the dive, and Kevin has paused for a moment before joining Angelina to spray defogger on his mask. I grab the moment. In fact, I grab his hand.
“Listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it the other night. My kids showed up unexpectedly. I tried to call you a dozen times, but you must be the most popular guy on the island. Your message machine is always full.”
Kevin doesn’t even look up. “No big deal. No problem,” he says, in a tone that lets me know it really is. I remember that voice—it’s the same one he used when I tried to apologize in high school for his finger. Back then I broke his thumb and he wouldn’t forgive me. Now I’ve broken a date, and it’s the same story.
But we’re all grown-up now.
“I came to Virgin Gorda because I wanted to see you,” I say, laying my cards on the table. “And after we ran into each other, I wanted to get together with you even more.”
“Too bad it didn’t happen. Timing is everything,” he says as he starts to descend the ladder. Then he adds, “Really, forget about it. I have.”
“Hard to forget that kiss,” I say bluntly.
Kevin pauses briefly on the ladder to stare at me. But a moment later, he’s disappeared underwater—to swim with the fish, and with the sexy, black-clad movie star with the trout pout.
Great. I gave up any chance of being with Kevin to keep my private life discreet, but Emily feels no such compunctions. I’m very lucky that my eighteen-year-old daughter confides in me but less than lucky that her honesty keeps me awake at three in the morning, as I imagine what she and scuba boy Nick could possibly be doing.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” Emily had said jubilantly after our family farewell dinner earlier tonight. We’d come back to the cottage—me, to go to sleep, and Emily, to put on a shorter skirt and head back out again.
“Yes, very cute. But if you’re meeting Nick at a club, maybe Adam would like to join you.”
“No, I’m kind of tired. Think I’ll just turn in,” her big brother Adam had said, not picking up on my cue. Or picking up on it and deciding to take Emily’s side. Adam made a show of opening the sofa bed in the living room and plopping down with a yawn.
Now I consult the bedside clock again, which has advanced a full two minutes since I last checked. How late can the clubs in Virgin Gorda be open, anyway? What if Nick took her back to his house to show her some Virgin Gorda version of his etchings? Maybe his sea urchin collection. Emily might go for a line like that. She always loved sea urchins.
I finally fall asleep—and I don’t see Emily until I wake her the next afternoon.
“Have fun last night?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. I putter around her room and find a pair of shorts and a hair clip, which I toss into her suitcase.
“Sooooo much fun. Nick’s been down here teaching scuba for six months. He dropped out of the University of Minnesota and said he’s never been happier.”
“And never been tanner,” I suggest.
“Or hotter,” Emily adds with a grin. “He’s really hot.”
I stare at her.
“Hot, Mom. Like it’s cold in Minnesota. Cold in New Haven, too. Maybe I should spend some time here with him. I can see why it would be nice to be hot with Nick.”
I look at her plaintively. “You’re a freshman at Yale. Do you know any adjectives other than ‘hot’? Are you trying to say that you’re attracted by the concept of warm sunshine pouring down on you in the midst of the frigid northern winters?”
“No, Mom. I’m trying to say that I’d like to be hot with Nick.” Emily jumps up from the bed and gives me a hug. “You’re a smart lawyer. How hard is it to understand? College boys are just boys, but Nick is a real man. Think how much more I’d learn if I left Yale and just hung out with him for a semester.”
“I can imagine what you’d learn,” I say a little too snidely.
“Real life matters, too, Mom,” says Emily, catching my tone and immediately turning defensive. Actually, offensive. “I’m serious about coming back to be with him. You never took chances, but maybe I should. You’re a lawyer, you were loyal—and look what it got you.”
I stare at my daughter for a moment, stunned. In her eyes, has my life really been that bad? Added up to so little?
“Look, we’re talking about you, not me,” I say, trying to hide my hurt feelings and be reasonable. “I’m sure Nick was cool. Or hot. Or whatever. But what attracted you to Nick for one night in a club probably wouldn’t be enough to get you through a whole semester.”
“You can’t tell,” says Emily with a sly smile. “I’ve heard wild physical attraction can get you through a lot.”
“You’ll forget about him the minute you get back to Yale,” I promise her.
“Some people you never forget,” says Emily, looking at me meaningfully.
I clear my throat, because I can’t disagree. I’m sure Emily doesn’t know about my secret list and the old boyfriends I’ve been looking up, but she’s already figured out for herself that certain people have a lasting impact.
Adam appears at the open door. “Mom, what time do we have to leave for the airport?”
“This very second,” I say, thinking I can’t wait to get Emily off this island.
I bustle around, getting everything into the rental car. My own flight’s not scheduled until tomorrow, but now I wish I could leave the island with the kids. There’s nothing left to do here and certainly nobody left for me to talk to. I’ve had enough of hot guys in the sun. I tuck my own suitcase into the car, hoping that I can switch my flight.
The airport is nothing more than a windswept field bordering a pebbly path, which I guess is supposed to be the runway. The wind-sock blowing in the breeze is literally a
sock. I’m praying that the pilots have more sophisticated weather technology somewhere, but if they do, I don’t see it.
I beg the man at the ticket counter to get me on the kids’ plane, but he just laughs at me. Finding an open space on a four-seat puddle jumper is harder than getting warm macadamia nuts in coach on a 747.
“Sorry you have to stay here alone,” says Adam, hugging me before going out to the plane, which is only slightly larger than the one he built out of Legos when he was ten.
“Don’t be silly. Just one more night and then I’m following. You two were the best to come down. It meant the world,” I say, hugging them both tightly.
“If you’re lonely, you can call Nick,” advises Emily. “He’s very . . .”
“I know. Hot,” I say, interrupting, and giving my daughter another hug.
The kids leave, calling good-bye to me as they climb up the steps to the plane. I keep waving frenetically long after they’ve stopped looking—just like I used to when their camp bus pulled away each morning. I wait until the plane is in the sky, and still I keep watching. There’s nothing to do now but head back to my empty cottage.
Alone and suddenly feeling lonely, I walk listlessly toward my rental car. What a sight I must be. I’m dragging my feet glumly in the dirt, my head is down, and I’m not paying attention to much around me. I’m a few steps from my parking spot when I hear a noise. Somebody comes up behind me and grabs my arm. I gasp in panic, and then spin around to face my assailant, and gasp again.
It’s Kevin, wearing his usual shorts and a T-shirt—and a Humphrey Bogart fedora.
“If you get on that plane, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life,” he says.
“I will?” I ask, hesitantly. What’s he doing here? Is this the same man who ignored me on the scuba dive yesterday?
“Worked on Ingrid Bergman,” says Casablanca-quoting Kevin.
“Just one little problem. I believe Humphrey said ‘If you don’t get on that plane you’ll regret it.’ He was trying to convince Ingrid Bergman to leave.”
“That’s one way to interpret the script,” says Kevin.
“And what’s your way?”
“That he secretly wanted her to stay. But he was too much of a jerk on the boat to say so.”
“I don’t remember any boat scene in Casablanca.”
“Good. Then maybe you forgot yesterday’s boat scene, too.”
“Hardly,” I say. “But I’ll get over that you acted like I didn’t exist. After all, you were very occupied fawning over Angelina Jolie.”
“That wasn’t fawning. In Hollywood it’s called auditioning,” says Kevin, contritely. “The director had called me for the gig as underwater photographer on her next film, but Angelina gets approval on everyone. We went diving together yesterday to take some shots and see if she found me compatible.”
“Did she?” I ask.
“Compatible enough to get the job but nothing more, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t asking. Not my business.”
“I’d like it to be your business.” He looks soulful for a moment. “I spent the weekend sure you’d blown me off and didn’t want to see me. It meant a lot what you said on the boat. And this morning, I realized how much I wanted to see you before you left.”
I’m not sure what to say. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say softening. And then I add, “I didn’t really understand what was going on with you and Angelina. But I’m glad you got the job.”
“My magnetism apparently paid off with her. Now I want to see if I can make it pay off with you,” he says with a smile.
“You didn’t really say that,” I say with a giggle. The line is a little corny, but I have to admit I’m feeling the draw of his force field. So I add, “But go ahead, be magnetic.”
“What magnets do best is pull things toward them,” Kevin says. And wrapping his arms around me, he does exactly that. Then he dips me over his strong arm, holds me tightly, and kisses me. When I stand up again and catch my breath, I’m flushed. But that’s just the start. We stand on the field kissing until someone drives by in a pickup truck, kicking up a storm of dust.
“Hey, Kevin, take it home,” calls the guy behind the wheel, leaning out the window and laughing.
“Get out of here, Dave. You’re just jealous,” Kevin retorts, waving him on.
Dave beeps his horn a couple of times and floors the truck.
Kevin turns back to me. “My buddy Dave didn’t have a bad idea. I should take you home. I mean, to my home. We can watch Casablanca.”
I playfully tug on the rim of the fedora, pulling it down over his eyes. “What an offer. But you didn’t need this whole getup to keep me here. My flight’s not until tomorrow anyway.”
“Good, then I’m kidnapping you for twenty-four hours.”
I don’t need any convincing. I climb into Kevin’s old MG convertible, and in the late afternoon heat, we drive across the island, catching up on our stories. Kevin came to this island years ago expecting to do nothing more than spend his life as a carefree scuba diver. Eventually he realized he had to make his passion pay. When a local rum company wanted to shoot an underwater commercial, he signed up for the job, figuring he could breathe and click a camera at the same time. A star— or at least a part-time career—was born.
“Since then, I’ve done some Hollywood gigs, but it’s not all glamour,” he says. “After Waterworld, you couldn’t get most directors to shoot inside a toilet bowl. So I went into the service business.”
“Just who do you service?” I ask.
“Tourists. People love vacation videos of themselves diving underwater. And even better, destination weddings are all the rage these days. It’s really boosted my business. You’d be surprised how many people want to come to the islands to get married underwater.”
“I would be surprised,” I say, wondering if Vera Wang’s white lace wet suits have a detachable train. And whether the bridesmaids’ bathing suits all have empire waists and are an awful shade of puce. Then making a slightly awkward transition, I ask, “But you never got married yourself? Not once? Not even on land?”
Kevin swerves to avoid a rabbit that runs into the road. Or maybe to avoid my question.
“I was waiting for you to come back to me,” he says getting the car—and himself—back in control.
“Baloney.”
“Correct.” Kevin laughs. “The truth is I never met the right woman.”
He glances away from the road to look at me and see if I’m buying it. I shake my head dubiously and Kevin grins.
“How about I like being footloose and fancy-free?”
“Warmer,” I say. “Now you’re supposed to explain how hard it is for you to commit. And that you suffer from Peter Pan syndrome.”
“Good ones,” he says impressed. “Are those working for you?”
“Pretty well. I’m not exactly in the mood to defend marriage these days.” I reach to pull back my hair, which feels good blowing in the breeze. At home in the summertime, I wouldn’t even dream of rolling down my car windows. Like everyone else, I travel temperature-controlled and hermetically sealed. But here I’m loving the freedom of Kevin’s open-topped coupe. I’m on vacation, I’m on the road, and anything goes.
“Marriage doesn’t sound so bad to me anymore. I guess you always want what you don’t have.”
“You’ve probably had plenty,” I say. “My bet is that you’ve been here long enough that there are no virgins left on Virgin Gorda.”
“Ah, but there’s a constant influx of tourists.”
“I hear the Chamber of Commerce lists you as a national resource.”
Kevin’s face crinkles appealingly as he breaks into a long laugh. “You have the wrong image of me. I’ve had my moments, but despite what my mother thinks, I’m not the playboy of the Caribbean. These days I’m happy coming home to peace and quiet.”
A few minutes later, we arri
ve at Kevin’s rambling wooden house, tucked into the rocks, high above the water. It’s definitely peaceful, but the roar of the waves and the cackling of the seagulls don’t sound quiet to me at all. As Kevin shows me around, I’m impressed that every room looks out on the sparkling blue ocean. I make a mental note to lord it over Eric. Kevin may not live in the Time Warner building, but his cliff-side perch has a breathtaking 360-degree view.
We go outside and walk down to the water’s edge. The deep blue Caribbean sea seems to stretch forever, a shimmering mosaic of turquoise and azure waves.
“How about a swim?” he asks.
“I don’t have a suit.”
Kevin gestures to the deserted landscape. “You may notice that there aren’t a lot of people around.” He takes off his shirt and puts his arms around me. We kiss and I feel the waves lap at my ankles. A moment later, he tugs gently at my shirt.
“I was crazy about you in high school, but you were such a good girl, I never got to see your breasts.”
“Have you been thinking about them for the last twenty years?” I ask, teasing.
“No,” he says honestly. “But definitely for the last twenty-four hours.”
Laughing, I scamper away into the water, and dive bravely into the breaking surf. Kevin follows and playfully swims alongside me.
“Should I beg?” he asks.
“That would help,” I say, only half-joking. The truth is, nobody except Bill has seen these breasts in maybe forever. Unless you count the spray-tanning tech and Biddy, the bra saleslady at the Town Shop. She’s an expert, and she assures me that mine are quite nice. But still, I pirouette away, splashing a storm of water into Kevin’s face.
“Feisty,” he says, swimming after me.
The Men I Didn't Marry Page 15