by Condition
"For now. It's a little cramped for two. We're looking for a bigger boat."
"What do you do for money?" As he said it, he feared the question would offend her, but Gwen seemed not to mind.
"We run dive excursions. It's Rico's business. He's been doing it for years."
Scott pondered this. He knew plenty of successful people—too goddamn many, in fact. But none of them—his father, Billy, his Drew or Broussard cousins, not even Carter Rook—owned an actual business.
"What about your job?" he asked.
"I quit. I spent eight years of my life cataloging fossils. I was turning into one myself." Gwen paused. "I still have to go back there and deal with my apartment. Have a tag sale, maybe. I don't have much stuff."
"Are you going to get married?"
"We're talking about it," she said, suddenly shy."I don't care one way or the other, but Rico's old fashioned. He doesn't want to live in sin. And get this: he's Catholic! Mom would love that."
Scott smiled. He had run out of questions. He wanted only to sit awhile and look at her, his little big sister, happy at last.
"I should have done this a long time ago," she said."Like you did.
I'm sorry for what I said before, about you going to California. You were the brave one, Scotty. I was proud of you."
Jesus: Gwen, proud of him, when in all the years he was gone he'd scarcely given her a thought. When he remembered her at all, he thought of Gwen as Billy's sister, his lieutenant and disciple, whose outs and runs counted; as one more thing Billy had that he did not. All that time, she had also been his?
"What do I tell Mom?" he asked.
Gwen sighed."I don't know. Tell her I'm happy. Tell her I'm impossible and stubborn. Just tell her you tried."
That night, after Gwen had driven him back to his hotel, after he'd rested and showered and smoked a joint, he dialed his mother's number.
"Dear, where are you? Goodness, it's late. When the phone rang I nearly had a coronary."
"Sorry, Mom." He glanced at the clock: eleven thirty. What an endless fucking day.
"Well, did you find her? Is she all right?"
"Easy, Mom." He wanted to take his time telling her, to savor his victory. Against tall odds he had found his sister, really found her. Gwen, who'd been lost not for months, but—to Scott anyway—for many years.
"I saw her and she's fine. She's great, actually. She's living on a houseboat"—he forgave himself this slight exaggeration—"with a guy she met on vacation. He's—let me tell you, Mom. He's a pretty impressive guy."
Dead silence from the other end of the line. Scott pressed on.
"He grew up on the island—grew up pretty poor, from the sound of it. But he's done well for himself. He's got a decent boat—not like Uncle Roy's, but not bad. And he's got this business running scuba-diving trips for the big resorts down here—there's a lot of money in tourism, Mom, a lot of money to be made if you know what you're doing. And this Rico does. He's a smart guy, good looking, very"—he searched for the right word—"dynamic."
A long pause on the other end.
"On a boat," his mother said."Gwen is living on a boat."
"That part's a little unusual," he admitted, "but listen." And he described how it felt to sit on deck late in the afternoon, watching the sun drop into Candlewick Bay, a spectacle of such stirring beauty it made you believe in God. He talked about the sunset, the bread and wine and flowers on the table, the gentle rocking of the boat in its slip, waiting all the while for something from his mother's end, some murmur of interest or comprehension or hey, maybe a word of thanks. At some danger to himself he'd done what no one else in his family could do. He had found his sister. He'd gotten to the bottom of things.
"She's going to stay there?" his mother said.
"That's the plan, Mom. They run the business together. In fact, when I first saw her they'd just dropped off a bunch of people at this very elegant—his mother loved that word—resort.
Silence.
"Rico's Catholic," he added."Did I tell you he's Catholic?"
Finally his mother began to laugh."Oh, that's delightful."
"You're still there," said Scott.
"Yes, I'm here. I don't understand any of this."
"It's pretty simple, actually. Gwen loves this guy, and he loves her."
"For heaven's sake, I don't mean that," she said, her voice crackling with impatience."There's no mystery to that. What I don't understand, what I will never in my life understand, is what on earth is the matter with you." She paused. "I didn't send you all the way down there to watch the sunset with your sister. I sent you to bring her home."
"I know," said Scott. "But the thing is, she's happy. If you could just see her—she's like a different person."
His mother sighed. "I'm sure she is, dear. But what happens six months from now, a year from now, when he's gotten what he wants from her?"
Scott frowned. Sex? Was she talking about sex?
"Think, darling. They get married, he gets American citizenship—"
(Rico's old fashioned. He doesn't want to live in sin.)
"—takes all her money—"
"Gwen has money?"
She made an impatient noise. "I'm certain she has every penny Daddy left her, and then some. And for a person like this Rico, an ambitious person from a poor background, don't you think that would be enticing? Cash to put into his business. To buy—heavens, I don't know what. Equipment of some sort. Another boat."
(It's a little cramped for two. We're looking for a bigger one.)
Shit, Scott thought.
"If this Rico is so impressive, as you say, don't you think he's had a great many women to choose from?"
He thought of the two blondes in the lobby at Pleasures, spilling out of bikini tops. Rico! they'd shrieked, giggling like schoolgirls.
"So why would he choose to take up with your sister? I'll tell you why." His mother paused. "Many women might have a love affair with such a person, but very few would toss their lives into the air like a deck of cards and give him everything he wants. It takes a particular kind of woman to fall for a character like this. A lonely and vulnerable and inexperienced young woman. And your Rico found his mark."
Scott hugged a pillow to his chest. An iron fist squeezed his stomach. Had Rico conned him too? His earlier paranoia returned in a wave. He had shown up at the dock stoned and ready to weep over the magnificence of the sunset, and Rico had read the situation immediately. Every word he'd spoken had maximized his advantage (I didn't know Gwen had another brother). Had made Scott feel insignificant and small.
"Sooner or later this Rico will show his true colors," his mother said. "People always do. And it will be terrible for Gwen, just terrible.
I was hoping to spare her that."
Scott thought of Gwen on the boat, the sun setting behind her, turning her hair to fire. You were the brave one, Scotty. I was proud of you.
His new love for his sister flamed alongside the old one—the dumb, ancient one that had always been there.
"I love her too, Mom," he said."I did my best."
His mother sighed."I suppose you did."
For long after they'd said their good-byes he sat with his back to the door. He had underestimated his opponent. His sister was in serious danger; he could not, would not, leave her at Rico's mercy.
His mother's plan had failed, but Scott had a few ideas of his own. His flight back to Connecticut could be changed. There was still time.
Scott rose early the next morning, shaved, and showered. When the bank opened he was waiting at the door. A pretty teller directed him to a cash machine, where his Quinnebaug Trust card worked as promptly as it did at home. He selected "Savings," an account he and Penny never touched, with good reason: until recently its balance had hovered around eighteen dollars. Scott waited, holding his breath. Seeing that his mother's check had cleared, he enjoyed a celebratory moment. Then came a harsh rebuke. YOUR DAILY WITHDRAWAL LIMIT IS $500, he was informed
in stern capitals.
He approached the comely teller, who seemed moved by his plight.
"You go and talk to the manager," she crooned. Her voice was low and soothing, as though comforting a cranky child."He can do a wire transfer. Don' worry. This happen all the time."
An hour later he hailed a taxi, acutely aware of the envelope inside his jacket, bulging with Caribbean dollars, heavy against his heart. Unused to carrying anything of value, he felt vulnerable, an easy mark for thieves and hooligans. Noble sentiments filled him, a rush of solidarity with his sister, with victims everywhere. That anyone should take advantage of Gwen outraged him.
The taxi took him to the entrance of the marina. The driver parked and waited. Scott glanced nervously at his watch. Was he too late? Gwen had always loved sleeping in, but Rico had the look of an early riser. It was hard to imagine him sleeping at all.
I can always come back tomorrow, Scott told himself. He would come back as often as necessary, until the deed was done.
He glanced idly into the rearview mirror and swiped at his hair, wishing he had worn his hat. In that moment Rico appeared in white shorts and T-shirt, striding briskly toward the dock, a wrapped baguette tucked under his arm. His very promptness gave Scott a chill. It was as though the guy had been waiting for him.
He got out of the cab and slammed the door."Rico," he called, in a voice totally unlike his father's. It was the gruff, thuglike grunt he'd employed in his younger years, mostly when buying drugs.
Rico looked up. In his white getup he looked like the handsome tennis instructors, suave and suntanned, who strutted around his mother's club making wealthy women swoon.
Gigolo, Scott thought.
He crossed the parking lot at an easy jog, sweating inside his heavy jacket.
"Gwen is still sleeping," Rico told him.
"That's all right," said Scott."I came to see you."
Given enough time, the creature revealed himself. The drunkard drank, the bandit stole. He could hide his true nature, but not easily and not for long. In his darkest parts he did not wish to. Perversely, irresistibly, he ached to show himself, naked beneath the grubby raincoat. In all his darkness, he wanted to be known.
Again Scott felt the weight in his jacket. He said, "I've got a business proposal for you."
chapter 7
The sun rises over St. Raphael. Gwen wakes first, roused by the slow rocking of the boat, the regular breathing of the water beneath. The same motion that lulls her to sleep can also waken her from it. This is a mystery, one of many lately revealed to her. Another miracle she will never understand.
She turns toward the man sleeping beside her, and sees him. This is no small thing. For years she woke in a blur, fumbled for eyeglasses on the bedside table. Now she sees with humming clarity. From the moment she opens her eyes, the world offers itself without equivocation, without distortion. The dark smudge of morning beard, the strong bones of his face. His bare skin draws her; it seems to have its own life, separate from the rest of him. Before Rico is awake, Gwen steals these moments with this other part of him, this radiant welcoming skin.
You are so small, he murmurs as he curls around her. I love how you are small.
And because he does, she has begun to love this about herself.
She is small enough to be lost at the center of a man, every part of her touching him, enrobed completely in his skin. Rico was gentle at first, sensing her discomfort. He loved her with his hands, his hot breath, his mouth. Now the magic pills make all things possible. He moves behind her and inside her, the same wavy rhythm. Wordlessly he lifts and turns her, arranges her above or beneath or beside him. His sureness enraptures her. He seems to know her body in ways that Gwen, who's lived inside it forever, is only just learning.
Her body has changed. Her stomach is flat now, her arms muscled. Living on a boat is work. More and more, she forgets to worry about how she looks. In town, around the marina, she is recognized.
This does not distress her. She feels important, worthy of notice. Gwen and Rico walk everywhere together; always he keeps a hand on her.
Your little woman, the locals say, a title that pleases her. She would always be little, but now she was a woman. She would always be little, but now she was his.
She watches him rise from the bed, hears him in the galley making coffee. He will walk to town for morning bread, and Gwen will fall into a deeper sleep than is possible with him beside her, the distraction of his skin. She sleeps the trusting sleep of a child, knowing he will return.
She sleeps less than she used to. Then, which is not so long ago, she hibernated through the long Pittsburgh winter, waiting for the earth to turn, for life to begin. She is living now, not waiting. Now there is a boat to pilot, a business to run, divers to outfit and guide and watch unobtrusively but vigilantly, to save from their own ignorance and panic. Gwen excels at this unseen watching. She has always known how to be invisible.
With the divers Rico is not invisible. He is a star. The women jockey for his attention. They appear in shorts, in thongs, squeezed into bikini tops. Gwen hides in oversize T-shirts. The voice inside her is small but insistent. Several times a day it asks: Why choose me? Why love me?
The women are beautiful and willing. Every few days, one will slip him a room key—white women always, Germans or French, Americans or Swedes. The first time she saw this, Gwen was angry.
The second time made her cry. Rico touched her face and spoke to her softly. It's not important. People are lonely. Have confidence in me. They don't speak of it again, even when the women return a second time, a third; when Rico takes them diving at night. In a week Gwen sees them two or three times. Then, never again.
It is the never again that matters.
The night dives are lucrative, and the business is their future.
Have confidence in me.
In five days she will return to Pittsburgh, but only briefly, to sign papers and pack boxes. She has already quit her job—a meaningless task, dispatched by phone—but she will stop by the Stott to take flowers to Heidi Kozak, the friend who waited out her silence, who sent her to St. Raphael.
Her savings she will put into the business. She has quite a lot of money, more than anyone knows. Papa left her a little something.
Invested aggressively for ten years, a little something becomes a considerable something. Alone among the Drew grandchildren, Gwen knows how to save.
I can't take your money, Rico said, but Gwen insisted. In the end he was convinced. They need a new boat, and Gwen has enough for a large down payment. Debt makes Rico anxious. He has never made monthly payments on anything. It is Gwen's turn to reassure him: Don't worry. The money will come.
They work hard together. Six days a week they run dive excursions—from Pleasures and Bimini Bay, the largest of the resorts. In the morning, and again in the afternoon, they host divers; in the evening a little supper, the never-ending repairs on the boat. Every few days Gwen drives Rico's truck to the market, to buy provisions—fruit, bottled water—for the divers, and flowers and wine for themselves.
The aged truck is full of surprises. One evening as Gwen drives away from the marina, the glove compartment springs ajar. She slams it shut, and again the door falls open. Inside is a pair of sunglasses, a tube of her sunscreen, the notebook where Rico records his mileage. And a bulging manila envelope.
She doesn't hesitate, has no reason to. She and Rico sleep in a compartment eight feet square. They prepare dinner side by side, close enough to hear each other breathe.
Thoughtlessly, guiltlessly, Gwen opens the envelope. The East Caribbean bills show birds and fish and mountains, a young queen of England, her neck ringed with jewels.
The bills are all hundreds. Quickly Gwen counts. There are five thick stacks, and one thinner one. Five hundred and forty bills.
She has never been good at arithmetic, but this conversion has become automatic. Keeping books for the business, she does it many times each day.
Fifty-four thousand Caribbean dollars equals twenty thousand American dollars.
Overhead a seagull screams.
Where would Rico get twenty thousand dollars?
For a day, two days, Gwen broods on this question. They have discussed the future, the best way to pool their assets. Rico has no savings account, no investments—at least, none he'd admitted to. She has access to his checkbook, the ledger he keeps for the business. No large sums have been recorded—recently or ever, as far as Gwen can tell. So where did the cash come from? Had it simply fallen from the sky?
There is one evil possibility. In St. Raphael drug smuggling is rampant. Every month or two inspectors descend on the marina, searching for contraband. Just recently they'd searched a boat two slips over, a massive power yacht called Island Girl. Her owner was a white man of indeterminate nationality, a—friend? acquaintance?—of Rico's. The marina gossips said he made trips to Jamaica. Island Girl was impounded, her owner taken away in handcuffs.
The man was arrested a week ago. Ten days at the most.
Is Rico involved with drugs? The very thought is a betrayal.
Gwen is appalled by her suspicions, rendered mute by shame.
Unable to speak, she watches and waits. She believed them cemented together. Now she begins to see the gaps, the places where the seal is bubbled.
Have confidence in me.
For two days she monitors the glove compartment, to make sure the money is still there. On the third day she takes the envelope and hides it in her purple backpack, crammed into a corner of the V berth.
That evening Rico returns from town looking sweaty, panicked.
His distress is obvious. But if she weren't looking for it, would she have seen it? Exactly how blind has she become?
"Everything okay?" she asks. Her voice is clear and innocent. She is horrified by her ability to dissemble, and strangely proud.
Rico squeezes her shoulder, his smile so disarming that her heart breaks a little. What am I doing? she wonders.
She will realize later that this is the wrong question. Better: What have I already done?