“I'm going to go get ready,” Amanda announced, standing up. “Can I wear a bikini? I didn't bring anything else. For swimming, I mean. I don't need a wet suit, do I?”
“Nope,” Jake said. “We'll manage.”
“Good,” Amanda said. “I only asked because when I was at the beach the other day, I saw you talking to that woman, Sandra St. Claire, and she was wearing a wet suit.” She wrinkled her nose. “It wasn't very flattering. It made her thighs look big, don't you think?”
“I didn't notice,” Jake said. He hadn't been looking at her thighs. At the time, he had been more focused on what he now knew to be a large quantity of foam rubber, and the whole subject of Molly Shaw aggravated him. After the fiasco at Falcon's Point, he had called Sonny Carmichael, the chairman of Leighton House, publisher of
Pirate Gold.
Sonny was a family friend and a Berenger client, and Jake hoped that he would be able to clear up this mystery. So far, he hadn't heard back from Sonny, and he had spent the past thirty-six hours bracing for some kind of lunatic explosion. Molly Shaw didn't know it, but the Gold Bay security staff had been directed to keep a close eye on her.
“Oh,” Cora said suddenly, as if she'd just remembered something.
“What?” Amanda asked.
“Nothing, dear,” Cora said. “Go and change into your swimsuit. Jake wants to get started right away.”
Amanda disappeared into the house, and Jake looked inquiringly at his mother.
“Sandra,” Cora said. “Or Molly Shaw, I should say. Amanda just reminded me. Sonny called this morning, and our professor is legitimate.”
Jake stared at her. “Are you serious? Molly Shaw was telling me the truth? She really is Sandra St. Claire?”
“You wouldn't believe what it took to get the information out of Sonny,” Cora continued. “He said that he didn't call back right away because even
he
didn't know who Sandra really was. He had to call her editor, and then the company's lawyers, and then he told me that if we weren't such old friends, and if he didn't trust me so completely, he wouldn't dream of saying a word. And
then,
after all of that, he made me swear on my life not to tell anyone. You're also bound by my oath of silence.”
“She must be making a hell of a lot of money for Leighton,” Jake said, reluctantly impressed. “And they must be hoping for more. But what's with all the secrecy?” He remembered the anxiety on Molly Shaw's face when she asked him—begged him, in fact—not to betray her. She had said something about losing her job, hadn't she? It made no sense to him.
“I haven't a clue,” Cora said. “Perhaps you should ask her yourself. She called my office yesterday, and left a message saying that she urgently needs to speak with you about the old sugar plantation.”
“What about it?” Jake asked apprehensively. That wasn't good. After Wednesday, he had relaxed, assuming that the dramatic story of Mary Morgan the Pirate Queen was just another invention of Molly Shaw's twisted mind. But Molly's mind was beginning to sound less twisted, and if Mary Morgan was actually real, then trouble still loomed on the horizon.
He exhaled in frustration. Trouble, indeed. Molly Shaw was causing him no end of it, at a time when he didn't need any more complications in his life. “Invite her to the house this afternoon,” he said. “Early. I'll find out what she wants, and deal with her.”
If nothing else, it would be interesting to see who showed up, calling herself Molly Shaw. The dowdy professor? The bombshell blonde? Or someone else entirely?
“I still don't feel like…me, exactly,” Molly said, staring at her reflection in the vanity-table mirror. It was Friday morning after breakfast, and Elaine was busily sorting through the Sandra St. Claire clothes, picking out pieces that could be adapted to fit into Molly's new, improved wardrobe. The rejects were tossed unceremoniously onto the floor. Out went the pink wet suit, the tight white bustier, the fuchsia cocktail dress, the white hot pants, the double-D bras, and all of the platform heels. Also cast aside were most of the things that Molly had brought in her own suitcase, including a shapeless beige cardigan sweater, two boxy men's T-shirts, a long India-print skirt, and a pair of old Birken-stock sandals, which Elaine had handled with a grimace, as if she were disposing of a dead rat.
The survivors were laid on the bed: the pink and white Hermès scarf, the gauzy white button-down shirt, a peachy pink cocktail dress, a simple silk camisole, and the silver sandals. From Molly's own collection, Elaine included a pair of faded jeans, a simple white cotton sweater, and a pair of loose navy linen pants.
“Don't worry,” Elaine said briskly. “You'll be fine. It always takes time to adjust to change. And this was a rather dramatic change.”
Molly had to agree. The previous afternoon, under Elaine's direction, a stylist at the Gold Bay salon had layered Molly's hair into a softly tousled style that fell just below her shoulders. Shorter pieces in the front accented cheekbones that Molly hadn't realized that she owned. After the cut, she had been handed off to a woman who took one look at her and said briskly, “Highlights. Butterscotch and gold. Here, and here. And here.”
Elaine was nodding approval, but Molly balked. “Just a minute,” she said, “does that mean blond? I don't want to be blond.”
The colorist looked shocked. “But you're perfect for it. Lightening your hair would lift your whole look.”
“No blond,” Molly said stubbornly. “Do something else. How about auburn?”
“No, no, dear,” Elaine said. “Not with your skin tone. Red wouldn't suit you. If you don't want blond, we'll do a lighter brown, nothing drastic, just a little warmth, a little depth, as if you've been out in the sun.” She turned to the colorist. “Caramel,” she said decisively. “Not butterscotch.”
“I feel like a sundae,” Molly said, trying to cover her nervousness. She couldn't believe that she was allowing Elaine to do this to her, but for some reason that defied logic, she trusted Carter's sister.
It had been a good decision. Her hair—blown dry to a bouncy smoothness—shimmered like amber satin. She had been running her fingers through it since they left the salon yesterday. It was amazing to think that this stuff was attached to her own scalp.
Sandra's makeup palette had also been edited to suit Molly. Out went the frosted blue eye shadow, the sticky pink lip gloss, the liquid bronzer, and the shimmery white highlighter. The new kit consisted of undereye concealer, taupe eye shadow from Elaine's own supplies, a smoky eyeliner pencil, mascara, sheer cream blush, and a peachy lipstick selected by the spa makeup artist.
Like a child with a new toy, Molly had gotten up early that morning and gone through the whole ritual again, alone in the bathroom. It took fifteen minutes to smooth out her hair with the blow dryer and a round brush, and ten more to apply the makeup, but the results were almost as astonishing as they had been the first time.
She wasn't beautiful, but she had never expected to be beautiful, so it was no disappointment. She was polished, though, in a stylish way that made her feel like a new person. She didn't look like a clone of Elaine, or a toned-down version of Sandra, or even a scrubbed-up version of her former self. She looked entirely different. And pretty. Actually pretty.
She was still stuck with her glasses for the moment, but they didn't look all that bad. With her new makeup and her streaky, tousled hair, they gave her a sort of sexy, intellectual look. She smiled at her reflection, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence. There was a lump forming in her throat.
“Good heavens,” Elaine said from behind her. She was holding up Molly's favorite bra, which was several years old, a faded beige, and stretched-out from a few too many spins in the dryer. It was comfortable, though, and Molly was fond of it.
“Out,” Elaine said, tossing it onto the reject pile.
“You can't throw that out,” Molly protested. “I need it. What else am I supposed to wear under my clothes?”
“For now, nothing,” Elaine said. “It worked for Marilyn Monroe, and frankly, dear, wearing nothing would be preferable to wearing…that. You're small enough to get away with it, especially in this environment. When we get home to Chicago, I'll take you shopping. Among other things, it will be my pleasure to instruct you on the art and science of lingerie.”
“W
ould you like another cup of coffee, Dr. Shaw?” asked Cora Berenger's butler.
“No,” Molly said. “Thank you.” She had accepted the first cup mostly to have something to hold in her restless hands, but after sitting for ten minutes on the Berengers' terrace, waiting for Jake, she had slowly sipped the whole thing down.
The villa was made of local stone, and it seemed to rise organically from the low cliffs just uphill from the resort—far enough removed for privacy, but close enough to be at the Gold Bay beach after a fifteen-minute walk. The resort wasn't actually visible from the villa, but Molly knew that it lay just beyond the jetty of rock coming out from the cliffs to the right. The house was high enough so that the crash of waves against the rocks below was softly soothing, and to the left rose the green slopes of the mountain. The terrace was large, built for entertaining, and connected to the house through three large sets of French doors, all standing open to admit the ocean breeze. Crimson bougainvillea climbed the stone walls of the villa, reaching and twining over the top of a wooden trellis that shaded one side of the terrace. This was where Molly had finally settled down to drink her coffee. She felt as far removed from her apartment in Belden as she would have felt in the middle of an Egyptian bazaar.
It was another five minutes before Jake appeared. “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said. “I was on a business call.”
“That's okay,” Molly said. “I've been enjoying the view.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. The last thing she wanted to do was to remind him of the last time that they had been together, discussing a view.
Jake nodded. From his manner—polite and slightly distant—he hadn't noticed her accidental reference. It was as if that day had never happened, and oddly, Molly felt both relieved and disappointed.
He looked her over with a clinically curious eye. “So, Professor, you've changed again. Is this the real Molly Shaw?”
“Uh…yes,” Molly said. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I'm not wearing a wig, if that's what you're asking. And from now on, I'll probably look more or less like this.”
“And Sandra?”
“Sandra is retired.”
“And her alter ego? The mousy scholar?”
“In a sense, she's retired, too,” Molly said. It was a testament to Elaine's abilities that Jake thought that her pre-makeover self had also been a disguise. “But that one is a little more complicated.”
“Okay, Ms. Shaw,” Jake said. “I used to think that I was a smart guy, but you have me completely stumped. What the hell have you been doing at my resort? Was this some kind of publicity stunt for your book? Didn't you know that we don't allow press on the island?”
“Oh, my God,” Molly said. “Publicity? No. I wasn't looking for press. Just the opposite. I told you.”
“You told me that you're not a journalist, and you have no desire to write about me. Fine. I like that in a woman. But if you aren't
from
the press, and you aren't looking
for
press, then…?” He looked inquiringly at her, as if to say,
fill in the blank.
Molly sighed. She hadn't planned to tell him the whole truth, but she was getting the feeling that it would be a good idea. At least it would make things less convoluted, and maybe restore a little of her credibility. Jake did have a sense of humor, so he might find the whole thing funny. “Well,” she said, “actually, I was looking for you.”
He nodded. “I guessed that. But like I said, if you wanted to have Sandra photographed with me, you picked the wrong place. There aren't any paparazzi hiding in our bushes. Or does your little friend Carter have a secret camera?”
“No,” Molly said. “My litt—I mean, my
friend
Carter is a journalist. He was the one who helped me get
Pirate Gold
published, so I owe him a favor.”
“Which was to do what?”
“Try to convince you to work with him on a project. He wants to write your biography. He's a very talented writer, and I know he'd do a great job. He did a profile on Donald Trump for
Esquire
magazine. Here's a folder of some other work that he's published…”
She stopped. Jake was shaking his head in disbelief.
“Are you telling me,” he said, “that the blond bombshell getup was designed to catch my attention so that you could persuade me to work on a book with your friend?”
Molly grinned gamely. “Yes. Can you believe it? It's kind of funny, isn't it? Funny?”
“That's one word for it,” Jake said. He wasn't smiling. “Why did you pick that particular character for the job?”
“We did some research on you, and she seemed like your type.”
“Did she,” he said dryly. “Interesting. I can see why you would think that, but you don't know me, do you? Any more than I know you.”
“I guess not,” Molly said. It didn't look as if he intended to laugh this off.
“And the mousy professor? What was the goal there?”
“Oh,” Molly said awkwardly. “No goal. That really was me. I had my hair cut at the Gold Bay salon yesterday. They're very good.”
“Apparently so,” Jake said. “But I'm still not clear on the Mary Morgan bit. I was told that you came here to talk to me about the ruins.”
“I did. I wanted to tell you that I have more information. From the museum director on Antigua. It's an old map, and I thought you would be interested.”
“I assumed that the Bonny Mary story was also fictional.”
“Fictional?” Molly echoed, surprised. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Let's see,” Jake said. “Why would I think that something you told me wasn't true?”
Molly felt her face reddening. “Actually,” she said, “almost everything I ever said to you was true. I just looked different when I said it, but I suppose that men like you are easily confused by that kind of thing.”