Last Resort (5 page)

“How many kids do you have?” Don asks.

“Oh, I don’t have any,” For the briefest second something flickers in Pamela’s eyes, a shadow of sadness swiftly gone. “Bill has a daughter from his first marriage—lovely girl.”

Now it is time for me to come to Pamela’s rescue. “Well, right now I work with adult students, but I worked with children at one time and I can tell you it is not all shiny apples and eager minds yearning for knowledge.”

“So nothing’s changed,” Amy says and then elaborates, “Before I met Don, I taught high school English. So you see, Phillip, I know exactly what you mean when you mention how disinterested many students are in learning. I blame television.”

“The idiot box,” Bill says.

Amy nods in agreement. “It’s rotted their brains. I remember standing in front of the class and seeing such vacant stares. When I was their age I always had my face buried in a book.”

“She still does,” Don jibes. “Half the time I am talking to her she’s not even paying attention to me—she’s engrossed in some novel.”

“I like to read, too,” Pamela joins in. “I just wish I had more time to do so.”

“Oh, honey, find the time. This place is a book lover’s heaven,” Amy says. “Just give me a good book, a recliner under a palm tree and I’m happy.”

After our meal arrives, Don and Pamela engage in a lively discussion on world events, to which I pay only partial attention.

“-but that would be a violation of the U.N. resolution,” Pamela asserts.

“The U.N. is a glorified debating society,” Don booms. “Just a bunch of do-nothing politicians preening and posturing. If the U.N. won’t put a stop to this then we will.”

Similar statements fly back and forth loaded with words such as
unilateral action
and
tactical strikes
. Occasionally, Bill jumps in with a measured, slow statement, but Don, with the unquestioning certainty of someone who gets all his facts from Fox New, and Pamela, with the humorous, insightful approach of a devoted Daily Show viewer, are the heavyweights in this debate.

Amy observes Don robustly sparring, shakes her head, and then turns to me: “They had to get him started. Don will go all night now. Mark my words, later tonight, we’ll be lying together in bed, and he’ll still be going on about this. Do either of you keep up with all this world politics stuff?”

“I do, a little, but not nearly as much as these two,” Gwen chuckles and nods to Pamela and Don who continue to debate. “Phillip, on the other hand is oblivious.”

“It’s true,” I sheepishly agree.

“If it’s not written in some dusty, old English book Phillip doesn’t know anything about it,” Gwen teases. “Now, one thing I am an expert on is food, and I must say this is delicious. I can hardly wait for dessert.”

Amy nods vigorously. “I was torn between what I ordered and what you ordered. Everything looked so good. I won’t be able to fit into any of my clothes once I go back home.”

“Is something wrong, honey? You’ve hardly touched your food,” Gwen asks me.

I move it around on my plate with obvious distaste. “I should have asked the waitress more questions before I ordered. Everything on the menu is written in French. I thought I was playing it safe by ordering chicken, but it’s got some kind of fish sauce.”

“Phillip hates seafood,” Gwen explains.

“If it breathes water I won’t eat it,” I elaborate.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Gwen consoles me and slides her plate over. “Here, eat some of my food. You might like it better.”

“You ordered steak. I like mine well done, but yours is so rare the tail is practically still switching,” I jest.

“No it’s not,” Gwen chuckles.

“Yes, it is. Look at all that blood on your plate.”

“That’s the gravy.”

“Yes, blood gravy. I can’t eat that.”

“Picky, picky,” Amy chides.

“True, but it keeps me thin,” I playfully respond.

Amy pats my hand. “You are so right. I wish I was a picky eater.”

I resolve to make up for my poor dinner experience with an extra helping of dessert.

The midnight hour draws near. Long after most of the other guests have retired from their meals to mingle at the bar or slumber in their bungalows, the six of us remain at our table laughing and chatting. Bill barely stifles a yawn, prompting Don to glance at his watch and remark how late it is.

We all rise, shake hands, and bid each other good night. Heading back to our bungalow, Gwen and I take a path that winds through manicured, lush landscaping. Most of the bungalows are dark. The air is balmy and still, filled with the sound of tropical insects and the crashing surf.

“It’s funny, initially I hated the idea of having dinner with all these strangers,” I admit to Gwen. “I wanted to be alone and not have to make small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know, but I actually had a lot of fun. They’re such interesting people to spend time with.”

Gwen is quiet.

“You didn’t mind sharing our table with them, right?” I press. “We’ll have plenty of time to take romantic meals—just the two of us.”

“You know you could have just lied back there. You did not need to tell them you’re just an adjunct professor,” she says, a slight edge to her tone.

Taken aback, I look at her sharply. “Why? I’m not ashamed of what I do.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I do, either, but we’re associating with some heavy hitters—people who are way out of our league. Don’t you want these people to think we belong at the table with them, or would you prefer to have them think we should be taking their orders and clearing away the plates?”

I do not have a quick reply. Gwen has me by surprise. She seemed to be enjoying herself all evening just as much as I was; now it seems she was secretly irritated with me the whole time.

“I don’t give a damn what these people think about us,” I snap. “I didn’t come here with you to suddenly try on a freaking alter-ego to impress a bunch of people we’ll never see again once we leave this place.”

She visibly softens her stance. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just get self-conscious around people so much wealthier than us.”

“Keep in mind; they’re quite a bit older than us. They should have more money. We could be as well off as they are someday.”

“Not on your adjunct professor salary.”

I grit my teeth in anger, but she wraps her arm around me and teases, “Kidding. Just kidding.”

Back in our room, Gwen undresses for bed, and I head to the shower. My heart quickens with anxiety; this is the first time Gwen and I will lie together in the same bed since separating months ago. Naked beneath the steaming jet of water I lean against the shower wall, taking several deep breaths to slow my heart and collect my thoughts. Suddenly, arms encircle me, soft hands running along my wet skin. Gwen presses herself against my back, holds me close, and whispers in my ear, “I’ve missed you so much, Phillip.”

Oh, God, she feels good. Her lips are on my neck. Her bare breasts caress my back. I close my eyes, tilt my head back, and try to lose myself in her embrace. Something is wrong. I am holding back. Instead of a burning desire, I am frozen, unable to respond. When I close my eyes, I see images that have haunted me for months: Gwen, wearing another man’s sweatshirt, fire light flickering on her bare legs, another man’s hands snaking across her backside as she grinds into him.

“What? What is it?” she says with concern.

I put a hand against the shower wall to steady myself. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

My back is still to her, but I do not need to see her to know the dejected expression on her face. Deflated, she rests her head against my shoulders, holding me still but without the fiery urgency of just a few seconds ago.

She returns to bed. I finish showering and join her in bed where we lay side by side in the dark, not speaking, not touching, but listening to the sound of the sea until we fall asleep.

Chapter Four

The next morning we dress casually for breakfast. We do not mention the events from the night before. I feel that I owe Gwen an explanation, but she blithely buzzes around our room, applying sunscreen and make-up, planning our schedule for the day. I know her ruined attempt at lovemaking is forefront in her thoughts, but an outside observer would be unable to tell it.

The restaurant is half-empty; many of the guests have a head start on us and are already splashing about in the surf or lounging on chairs under the palm trees. Bill and Pamela sit at a small table for two and a friendly hostess seats us next to them.

“Ah, isn’t this view simply marvelous,” Pamela beams and gestures to the pristine tropical sea. The beach is blinding white, the sea dappled turquoise and blue. Hundreds of white butterflies stream past us. They head in the same direction, hugging the coast, fluttering on the breeze like a tropical ticker-tape parade.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Gwen remarks.

“One of the staff told us this is part of the butterflies’ annual migration,” Bill explains. “They are bound for South America. It really is something. You picked a good time of year to book a holiday here. Just think—a week later or earlier and you would have missed this spectacle of nature.”

A server brings Pamela and Bill their breakfast and takes our order.

“So, what is on your agenda for the day?” Pamela asks us once the server is gone.

“I was hoping to go snorkeling,” Gwen replies.

“Yes, that does look like a lot of fun,” Pamela agrees. “After breakfast we’re going to tour the nature preserve. Why don’t you join us?”

We accept their invite. A winding paving stone path leads from the bungalows and other resort buildings that line the shore to the nature preserve. The nature preserve only spans a few acres, not counting the lagoon. Much of the terrain of the island is relatively arid—dry grasses, the occasional scraggly tree and bush—but here near the lagoon the setting is more lush. Huge bushes, heavy with fragrant, trumpet shaped flowers, crowd along the edge of the path. The palms and other trees are tall and close together. With just a few steps into the nature preserve the sound of the sea and any other sounds emanating from the resort disappear.

“I feel like I am in another world—some place prehistoric, untouched by man,” Gwen whispers, and touches a thick vine that rises into the canopy.

A group of hermit crabs, oblivious to our approach, wanders across our path.

“Aren’t they far from the beach?” Gwen asks.

“These are land crabs—they live near the water but not in it,” Bill answers. “I used to own one as a boy many, many moons ago. See that large crab bringing up the rear? The one with the big purple claw? That’s the male. The others are females; they comprise his harem. He is probably the largest crab around and he uses that purple claw to ward off the smaller males and keep the females all to himself. In the animal kingdom, it pays to be big. Our big, purple clawed lothario here is making certain his DNA is passed on.”

“And the smaller males—where are they?” Gwen looks around.

“I think I hear them under some leaves…weeping,” Pamela jests.

Pamela steps over the marching column of crabs. “Sorry to disturb your crustacean orgy.”

We laugh and proceed on. Bill aims his camera at an emerald hued hummingbird sipping nectar from a flower. “Don’t fly away, you little bugger. There—got it,” he shows us the digital photo on the back of the camera. “That should do quite nicely in the scrapbook.”

“Oh, look at this charming fellow,” Pamela points to a neon colored tree frog resting nearby on a leaf.

“Darling, it might be poisonous,” Bill warns. “Don’t touch it.”

“Really, Bill? And I was just about to put it in my hair,” she replies with sweet sarcasm to which we all laugh.

The air hums with the croaking of frogs, the strange cries of unseen birds, and the droning buzz of insects. Near the lagoon, the staff has cleared some of the trees for benches, which afford us a prime view of the lagoon. A white crane stalks fish in the reeds near the waters edge. Large flocks of birds paddle on the surface of the lagoon. Fluttering past them, as they did on the beach, are the migrating white butterflies.

Gwen wraps an arm around my waist. “I’m so glad we’re here. This place is unlike anywhere I’ve ever been.”

I kiss her suddenly, and surprise myself as much as Gwen. I pluck a large scarlet flower and tuck it into her hair.

She takes my hands and stands before me as a bride does when she takes her vows. “This place is so beautiful, Phillip. I feel light…weightless. Does that make any sense? It must be what a newborn baby feels like, when you have no yesterdays—only tomorrow.”

At this moment, I am not thinking of the past and all the bitterness that lurks there. I make a secret wish that it will always be like this—the two of us together, free of all baggage, the past forgotten, the future a blank page upon which we can write our dreams.

“Now how did he get up there?” Pamela asks, shielding her eyes against the sun and pointing to a wild goat perched on the edge of the cliffs that ring the resort.

“That goat is either very nimble or very stupid,” Bill says as he focuses his camera on the animal. The goat grazes on the scrubby bushes that grow along the rocky face of the cliffs, and watches us with far less interest than we display towards it before wandering out of view.

We head back to our rooms, passing other couples enjoying the preserve along the way. Our breakfast digested, we part company from Bill and Pamela and change into our bathing suits. When my bare feet hit the sand, I feel a boyish exuberance.

“Look at you—you can’t wait to dive into the ocean,” Gwen smiles beneath her wide straw hat. “Go for it.”

And I do. I run straight from our doorstep down the sloping beach and dive into the water.

“Is it cold?” she asks.

I shake the water from my hair. “It’s wonderful. Not quite bathwater temperature.”

Gwen joins me. “Let’s get the snorkeling equipment,” she suggests.

Lorenzo, a young island man, is in charge of all the nautical equipment—kayaks, flippers, masks and the hobie cats. He is my island twin—slight of build and height—with striking hazel colored eyes.

“The best reefs are at either end of de resort. Plenty fish out dere for you to see,” he advises as he hands us the snorkeling equipment.