The Red Bikini (19 page)

Fin nodded. “She did.”

A pause hung over the table as everyone stared at the tablecloth, lost in their own thoughts about the lost Jennifer.

“So you’re heading to South Africa?” Mr. Makua said, breaking the silence.

Giselle glanced around the table. To her surprise, Fin nodded.

“Two days,” he said.

She tried to keep the shock out of her face. He was leaving in two days? He hadn’t mentioned that. . . . Although, on the other hand, why would he? But the thought made her strangely sad. She had hoped she could finagle more time with him. She liked the way his voice softened when he spoke of the sites in Bali; she wanted to hear more about South Africa; she wanted to know more about his father and what was going on there; she wanted to see more of the laugh lines around his mouth when he talked about reef breaks. She also wanted more of the shivers he gave her when he fixed her with that heavy-lidded smile.

Fox chimed in about South Africa, and how one of the tour surfers from Australia was making his home there now. As Giselle tipped her wine and tried to hide her new disappointment, the conversation turned toward food, and then—somehow—art again.

The dinner came to an end over a raspberry-swirl cheesecake and a molten chocolate cake, which they shared six ways.

“The show starts in ten minutes,” said Mr. Makua.

“Now, what is this show?” Giselle said.

“You’ll like it,” Mr. Makua said, helping Charlene scoot back her chair. “It’s an original tableau: Actors pose in the paintings. They do the lights and makeup to make them appear flat, as if they’re in the painting. They’ve been doing it for seventy-five years. I always come in July to make sure I see it.”

The show was on the festival grounds, so it took only about five minutes to walk to the entrance. A set of majestic double doors, which were really just archways to the outdoors, opened to red theater seats that rose sharply, stadium-style, as if molded into the canyon. The sky provided the ceiling; the falling dusk and emerging stars counted down to showtime.

Mr. Makua handed out the tickets while Fin rented binoculars at a nearby booth. Fox stood in line for blankets, and came back with three—one for each couple.

Fin took Giselle’s elbow and steered her toward their seats. A slight chill hung in the air with a growing mist that was settling in the canyon, cooling the evening sky as the sun went down. Giselle spread the blanket across her and Fin’s laps.

“You’re going to South Africa in two days?” she murmured.

“Yeah. Ballito—the Mr. Price Pro. Nice purse—quarter million.”

She straightened the blanket on her side. Her hands shook.

“Was that something I should have told you?” he whispered.

“Well, I figure—being the new lover and all—I should know some of these things.”

Fin chuckled at her repetition of his line, but his laughter died as he watched her obsessive smoothing.

“Seriously,” he whispered. “Is this upsetting you?”

“I just—” She leaned forward to tuck the blanket around her ankle and took a deep breath. She didn’t know what to say.
I’m going to miss you? Why didn’t you tell me?
It sounded so silly. She didn’t even know this guy. This relationship was fake. “I just didn’t want to mess up your scenario for your boss,” she finally fudged.

He stared at her for several beats after that, as if about to say something, but didn’t.

Fox’s voice rang across the row: “Everything okay?”

Fin turned to respond as Giselle continued to smooth the blanket. The scent of coconut swirled off Fin’s hair when he moved.

“We’re good,” he told Fox.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the narrator’s voice boomed.

The show launched into the first act. It was as terrific as Fin and Mr. Makua promised. The theme was “The Muse,” and Giselle brought her binoculars to her eyes for every painting and sculpture, watching in amazement to see whether they were truly real people. The makeup and lighting nullified depth perception, making the actors look flat and helping them blend right into the painting. Sometimes life-sized statues were unveiled in the bushes at the sides of the stage, each posed by a real actor sprayed completely in bronze or gold. The works were accompanied by narration that explained the muse in each painting and how she shaped the work. A live orchestra played between each set.

Giselle was transported to this world of art she had once loved and lost between
Parenting
magazine and playdates. Between each piece, she applauded with the rest of the audience, then snuggled beneath the blanket and gazed at the outlines of the canyon, the ocean fog sitting just outside the rim of the bowl, as if it, too, wanted to swirl to the orchestra. The night air smelled clean.

One of her favorite parts was the work of Frida Kahlo. The narrator told stories of Diego Rivera and Kahlo’s tempestuous marriage, riddled with infidelities. Giselle gaped at the devastating landscape of Frida’s
On the Borderline Between Mexico and the United States
, and could see that the painting could just as easily represent the feeling of being between marriage and divorce, carcasses and sadness strewn throughout the foreground.

She lowered the binoculars.

“
Land of Make Believe
,” Fin whispered in her ear.

“What?”

“That’s the one that reminds me of you.”

A shiver ran through her at his breath against her ear, racing against the sadness she felt for Frida. Her emotions were a cacophony: despair for Frida, sadness about Fin leaving, joy when his thigh brushed against hers under the blanket, hopelessness at the idea of shattered marriages, and sexual jolts when Fin’s breath tickled her neck and told her that works of art reminded him of her.

Giselle shakily lifted her binoculars to study
La Valse
, a bronze sculpture by Camille Claudel, and her sadness evaporated—replaced with a warmth that curled her toes. The sculpture portrayed two lovers in a sexy, yet chaste, embrace. The actor was bronzed with paint, shirtless, longish hair, holding the woman in what appeared to be ocean water. The woman leaned in, back bare, snuggling his neck. They weren’t kissing, just holding each other in an embrace of love, safety, adoration. . . . He had his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, as if to keep her cherished.

Giselle’s breath caught at the beauty of the piece, as it transported her to a memory of Fin this morning—the way he’d held her in the surf, the way she’d felt so safe snuggled against his chest, the way his lips had whispered that warning against her hair.

Giselle brought the binoculars down. She glanced at Fin’s profile. He was watching this one with interest.

The last piece was
The Last Supper
, but Giselle didn’t lift the binoculars. Mostly she needed to stop her heart from thundering. The idea of being in Fin’s arms for real, or just having him kiss her once more, the way he had at the funeral, was crowding into her thoughts. She didn’t know what she was allowed to want. Long-term, she wanted a family again. Suburbia. Some sense of normalcy for her daughter. And what Fin had said at the restaurant on the pier made sense: If she wanted all that long-term—the happy family, the suburban life for Coco—then she shouldn’t take advantage of something cheap and easy, like him, short-term. Dismissing the easy thrill was the moral way to behave, the responsible thing a mother of a five-year-old girl should do. When Coco was older, she could tell her that she shouldn’t lust after a man she didn’t have a future with.

Yet, after years of putting her life on hold for Coco and Roy, her own wants were being unleashed in a chaotic way, powerful as the ocean against her body, ready to knock her down.

A sudden shuffling was going on at the other end of their row, and Giselle leaned forward to see Fox discussing something in low whispers with Tamara.

Fox leaned toward the rest of them, his cell phone in his hand. “I have to go,” he whispered. “They stopped the presses at the magazine. I have to see what’s wrong. Fin, can you take Tamara to Javier’s Cantina? I can meet you there after the show.” Without waiting for Fin’s answer, Fox headed out the aisle.

Giselle glanced at Fin, and then at Tamara, who sat stonily, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

Tucking the binoculars into her lap, Giselle joined the audience in another round of applause.

F
in could barely concentrate on the rest of the performance, focused now on how he was going to keep Tamara happy until Fox returned. And how Giselle’s thigh felt under this blanket.

For a night that had started pretty well, it was sure starting to suck.

He’d enjoyed the rest of it, though. Although Mr. Makua had been veering into dangerous territory with too much talk about his dad.

Fin was embarrassed that his parents lived such an impoverished life. It was what they wanted, though. Fin kept trying to send money, but his dad would send it back. Usually with angry notes. His dad came close, several times, to accusing him of selling out, of losing sight of what surfing was all about. His dad said he didn’t need much in Bali—just good surf, his good woman, and a bowl of rice three times a day. Fin himself had always felt hungry as a child, and often unsafe, and couldn’t understand how his parents could have chosen that as their level of “enough.” They’d slept under trees on hard beach sands in Mexico or South Africa, Fin shivering against the siren howls of the wolves or jackals. Sometimes they’d sleep in the van, the gas fumes clogging their throats as one of the Zen surfers sat guard, freezing, in the driver’s seat. They learned to hide their food in hanging nets, against animals and vagrant thieves. Because Fin had lived a childhood that always felt uncertain, he now relished having money. He kept most of it in the bank—he didn’t have many needs—but having it made him feel safe. He knew he would never have to wonder where his next meal was coming from.

Despite that brief side trip during tonight’s dinner, he had enjoyed the rest of the night. He got a kick out of Fox and Tamara; he loved talking surf with Mr. Makua; and he loved watching Giselle. Watching her laugh. Watching her close her eyes against the deliciousness of cheesecake. Watching the passion spark in her eyes when she talked about art. Seeing that smoldering sexuality bubbling closer and closer to the surface. . . . He was lucky he was heading out to South Africa in two days, because whatever this obsession with her was, it was starting to feel dangerous.

At the Roman-ruins exit, the five of them shook hands, and the women exchanged hugs. As they waited for Mr. Makua’s driver, Mr. Makua tugged on Fin’s elbow and held him back from the others.

“Your father is proud,” he said, low.

“What?” Fin couldn’t imagine what Mr. M was talking about. He hadn’t talked to Fin’s dad in years.

“His heart swells with pride.”

Fin smirked. Maybe right between sending his money back and ignoring his phone calls. “How do you know that, Mr. Makua?”

“Because
my
heart swells with pride.”

A strange lump formed in the center of Fin’s throat. He tried to swallow around it.

“You are a man of respect,” Mr. M said quietly. “I knew you respected the ocean, and I knew you respected your father and mother, but tonight I saw you respect life, and Jennifer’s life, and your lady. This will take you a long way, Mr. Hensen.”

“But Giselle—she’s not—”

“You have respect for her.” Mr. M waved off Fin’s response. “That is what matters. I don’t care about what the tabloids say, Mr. Hensen. I care about what I see. Respect for others, respect for Mother Nature, respect for self.” He ticked each one off with a finger. “This is all your father ever wanted for you.”

The car pulled up, and Mr. M leaned forward on his cane as the bodyguards came close, helping him and Charlene into the car.

Fin wanted to continue the conversation, but all he could do was lift his palm in an inadequate good-bye.

As soon as the car pulled away, Tamara’s smile left her face. She hooked Giselle’s arm in hers and headed down Laguna Canyon Road toward Javier’s, several steps in front of Fin.

He cleared his throat and pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, against a strange pressure of tears that dammed there, and glanced at Tamara’s deliberate tugging of Giselle.

This was going to be a hell of a night.

 • • • 

Javier’s was crowded, as usual.

Fin ushered Giselle and Tamara off the beach sidewalk, through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd within the whitewashed adobe walls. They made their way to a bar table and ordered a round of margaritas under the open beams of the night-lit patio. But Fin, at the last minute, called the waitress back and changed his order to a club soda.

The wooden casement windows on the far end of the bar opened toward the night ocean, with only the Pacific Coast Highway and some sand between. The misty air, mingled with the evening fog, smelled like salt and left a familiar film on Fin’s arms. He rolled his dress sleeves past his elbows and continued to think about what Mr. M had said. Respect? Was that what Mr. M had been looking for all this time in his Mahina spokesman? Was that really all Fin’s father had wanted? And was that what was so different about Giselle—was he stumbling over himself with respect for her? Was that why she felt so special?

“The melon margaritas here are wonderful,” Tamara told Giselle, pushing hers across the table for Giselle to try.

Tamara was talking again, trying to maintain a cheerful note, but obviously still seething. He wondered how often Fox pulled this kind of thing. Of course, he didn’t ask: He didn’t want to get her any more riled up than she already was.

The music grew louder as the night grew longer. The Eagles’ “Tequila Sunrise” came over the speakers. Soon Tamara was slipping into alcohol-induced revelations, leaning heavily toward Fin’s shoulder.

“So I didn’t embarrass you earlier, did I, with the first-kiss story?”

He took a sip of his club soda and looked at her sideways. “No,” he lied.

“I just love a good love story.” The tequila was causing her
L
s to become labored. “And you two are
clearly
in love,” Tamara went on, leaning now toward Giselle.

Fin glanced across the table at Giselle, who was avoiding his eyes.

“I wonder if Fox is on his way.” Fin dug his phone from his pants pocket to check his messages. Damn—he’d forgotten that he’d turned it off during the performance. Had he already missed Fox’s call? “If he doesn’t come soon, maybe we can take a walk along the beach,” he tried, as he came upon three messages in a row from a number he didn’t recognize.

Shit, it
was
Fox
.
Fin could barely hear Fox’s message above “The Piña Colada Song” on his end. But he could make out the whirling of the presses on Fox’s side.
“I’m waiting for Chartreuse to bring its new ad by, and as soon as this asshole gets here with it, I’ll head back over there. Should be no more than two hours.”

Crap. He couldn’t keep Tamara sober here for that long.

The table trembled as Tamara leaped off her barstool, her own phone pressed to her ear. She must have gotten the same message.

“Tamara!” Fin lunged across the table to try to stop her, but she was quick. She spun past a burly man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt at the bar table behind them and headed for the front door. He swore under his breath and turned toward Giselle. “Wait here.”

He elbowed his way through palm- and hibiscus-decorated sundresses and dress shirts and tried to catch Tamara at the door, but she moved too fast. He got caught up behind a party for six and lost her.

“Tamara!” He spun out to the sidewalk. The bars were still teeming with people. Live music and suntanned bodies spilled out onto the sidewalks, carrying the heavy scent of suntan lotion and perfume. Fin turned sideways through the next crowd.

“Tamara!” He spotted her and lunged forward, catching her wrist. “What are you
doing
?”

As she whirled to face him, he was stunned to come face-to-face with the most pitiful expression he’d ever seen—mascara streaming down her cheeks, mouth long and sad, and wisps of dark hair sticking to her neck. He felt so damned sorry for her.

“He keeps
doing
this,” she wailed. “He keeps
leaving
me.”

“Tamara, it’s a work emergency. What’s he supposed to do?”

“I think he’s seeing someone.”

Fin stepped back, startled by the preposterousness.

“I could hear presses in the background,” he said. Her accusation seemed so absurd he didn’t think he needed to say more than that, but she shook her head.

People jostled them, and the scent of coconut oil swam heavily in the air. She swayed to the right.

“Let’s go back to the restaurant,” he said. “Giselle is still there.”

He thought that would appeal to Tamara’s protectiveness, but Tamara looked farther down in the direction of the beach. He tried again: “We’ll pay for our drinks. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll take you home, or . . .” He left that open-ended. He wasn’t really sure what their other options were.

“I liked your idea about the walk on the beach.”

“Okay.” He began nudging her back toward Javier’s. “But let’s get Giselle first.”

“Or your house?” she asked, in full vulnerability mode now. She leaned into him and swiped at the mascara under her eyes. “Can we go to your house? You and me and Giselle? I like her, Fin.”

“Sure. We’ll go wherever you want. And I like her, too.” God, he hated to see women cry. He never knew what to say, or what to do.

He directed Tamara through the sidewalk crowds, past beer bottles clinking inside the restaurant patios, past bursts of laughter punctuating the swells of live bands. When they made it back to Javier’s, Giselle was standing in front, holding her purse primly.

“I paid the bill,” she said.

Fin winced. “Let me pay you back.”

“No, it’s okay—” She caught sight of Tamara’s tear-streaked face and gasped. “What
happened
?”

“Fox is cheating on me.” Tamara threw her arms around Giselle.

Giselle looked wide-eyed at Fin over Tamara’s shoulder, but he shook his head.

“Tamara wants to go somewhere,” he announced. “I think we all need some fresh air and fewer crowds.”

A few guys suddenly recognized Fin on the sidewalk and came over for autographs. He scrawled his name and handed hats and other items back, desperately trying to keep track of Tamara, who was stumbling down the sidewalk toward the car, leaning into Giselle. He was pretty sure there’d be an article in the paper tomorrow about what a jerk he was, not signing enough autographs, not signing that guy’s skimboard, not even focusing on his fans. He took a deep breath and tried to keep Tamara in his line of vision.

Once he escaped, and made sure Giselle and Tamara were both in the car, he leaned against the hood and left messages at the pressroom to let Fox know where they were.

Damn, things weren’t going the way he’d hoped.

 • • • 

Tamara was undone by the time they got to Fin’s place. Her dress was crumpled around her hips, and mascara formed jags down her face.

“I was a
debutante
,” she whined from the backseat. “My father was the CEO of
Pique
. How could Fox
do
this to me?”

“I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding,” said Giselle, double-checking her assumption against Fin’s profile. He nodded.

When they arrived at Fin’s house, he ushered them down his front walk, past the sounds of the dark ocean that roared up between the narrow homes, and into his living room, where he left the two of them in the center while he flipped on the lights.

Giselle laid her purse on the low, midcentury-modern couch and wondered whether she should keep up the ruse for Tamara that she and Fin were engaged. Should she walk into the kitchen and pretend she knew where the water glasses were?

One glance at Tamara, though, swaying from her standing position, and she had her answer. There would be no need. She led Tamara toward the couch. “Have a seat, sweetie,” she said, easing her into the thin, rectangular cushions.

Fin watched both of them warily.

“Let’s get her some water,” Giselle said over her shoulder, and Fin nodded, escaping into the kitchen.

Giselle settled Tamara against the back of the couch and then joined Fin. He helped her get down a coffee mug and turned on the tap water for her. The mug had a lewd picture on the side.

“You don’t have any glasses?” she said.

He smiled. “Afraid my china for twelve is in storage, Miss Strawberry Queen.”

Giselle walked the mug to Tamara, but Tamara had gotten up and found some scotch Fin had on top of a wet bar by the window. She held up a shot glass that had the name of some Vegas showroom scrawled across the side.

“Tamara,”
Giselle said in her den-mother voice. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, Giselle,
please
. If Fin were cheating on you, you’d be doing the same thing.”

Giselle glanced at Fin, who simply raised his eyebrow at that.

“I want to sit on the beach,” Tamara announced.

She pushed past Giselle to the center sliding door. Fin had three sets of sliders, spanning the front of the house. Tamara stumbled over an expensive-looking telescope in the center of the room, chose the slider on the farthest side, and tugged at the lock.

“Tamara, why don’t you relax.” Fin moved her hand away. “The tide’s all the way in. Sit down. Let me get some lights on out there.”

Tamara backed off, and Fin herded her toward the couch. He threw Giselle a pointed stare that seemed to beg for help.

Giselle took Tamara’s hands and guided her toward the couch, sitting with her, this time, on the edge.

“I just love him,” Tamara whispered to Giselle, her mouth forming a grimace as the tears began to flow.

“I know you do.”

“I just want him to stay with me.” Tamara buried her forehead into Giselle’s shoulder.

Giselle patted her head. “He will, Tamara. He loves you. He’s just working.” She fluffed two couch pillows, which were leather and not very fluffy, and helped Tamara lean back.

Outside, Fin flipped on two enormous rooftop floodlights that slowly hummed to attention. As they warmed up, the lights threw their illumination about thirty feet across the water in front of his house. With the tide all the way in, the water completely submerged the sandy area below where Coco had played the other evening. The thought sent a violent shiver through Giselle. The ocean roared toward the house, violently meeting the rocky break below and sending rooster tails of spray into the black air. The ocean hissed each time it made its way back out.