What Men Want (9 page)

I
t was one of those snowstorms that hit New York with unexpected intensity. In this day and age it's hard to imagine that with all the technology at their disposal, meteorologists can be so off the mark. At most, a light snowfall was predicted—the front was moving down from Canada, but it wasn't supposed to make much of an impact on weather in the city. But by the time it ended, fifteen inches had fallen and another ten were predicted.

When I got over the gleeful feeling that I would be swimming and sunning while my colleagues were trudging over mountains of snow in the Arctic-like cold with their feet buried in heavy boots, it occurred to me that now Chris would have even more time on his hands because many of the employees of his agency lived outside the city and wouldn't be able
to make it to work. I was determined to keep thoughts like that at bay and I called the office to see what my competitor was up to.

“What's Slaid writing about?” I asked the news clerk.

“I didn't read the paper yet,” she said typically. I heard her thumbing through the pages. Then the rustling stopped.

“He's got a story about the city's growing interest in bringing more business here,” she said, unaware of how the news would affect me.

“Shit,” I said. “Double shit. Can you e-mail it to me?”

“Our system's down,” she said, “and I'm just about to go out to lunch. Can I send it to you in an hour or so?”

“Why should today be different from every other day,” I said, thinking of all the system crashes that seemed to happen whenever I was either on deadline or was waiting for some vital information.

“Jen, there's some major system upgrade going on around here for the next two days. We're ready to drag out the typewriters. It's a miracle that the friggin' phones work.”

Typical. We were one of the biggest papers in the city, presumably in the communications business, and it was impossible to get a story sent to me. “Well, can you fax the damn thing before you go?”

“I'll try,” she said. “What's your fax number?”

I searched through my bag and gave it to her.

“Give me a few minutes,” she said.

I headed to the business center to wait by the desk so that the story wouldn't sit there with my name on it. I looked around me. The business center was adjacent to the hotel office. If only I had access to it… As I was waiting, Reilly walked by. Not the most opportune moment to run into him. He opened the glass door and walked in.

“Morning,” he said. “How did you sleep?” The question struck me as odd, but I ignored it.

“Like a baby,” I said. “I woke up, cried, went back to sleep, and woke up again.”

He laughed. “Yeah, same here. We should have gone for a midnight walk on the beach.” He shook his head. “Anyway, the offer's still good for snorkeling. I think there's a group of people going over to Buck Island, so we'll have company.”

He probably guessed that I wasn't comfortable going off alone with him. Anyway, the problem had taken care of itself. In fact, there was a regularly scheduled tour boat that would drop us off. We'd snorkel for the afternoon and be picked up by three. Reilly left and I turned back to the desk, perfect timing because I was handed the fax. I stuffed it into my purse and went back to my room.

I had to hand it to Slaid. Little got past him. His column started by describing how the city budget needed balancing and how the mayor was making a
greater effort to bring in new businesses as well as encouraging others in the arts to use the city's resources to their advantage. It didn't name names, but it was one of Slaid's columns that included the unspoken words “more to come.”

At least, from what I could tell, there was no indication that he knew that the mayor's film-office people were in St. Croix. If I got lucky, I'd have that exclusive all to myself. I contemplated calling Slaid and just holding the phone out so that he could hear the soft sounds of a steel band playing “Yellow Bird.” But I also knew that I had to move fast; otherwise, even if he was chest high in snow, he'd find a way to join the party, if not sail to Buck Island himself.

But back to me, towel in hand, applying waterproof sunblock and about to embark on my underwater adventure. If you're thinking that I'm an outdoorsy type who enjoys exploring the vast underwater world, you're dead wrong. First, I associate breathing tubes with lying comatose in an ICU unit. And second, as far as covering my eyes with a mask that fogs up and makes eyeliner bleed, my record is about seven minutes.

Still, I was determined to play the part. We met down by the water, and the group boarded a forty-two-foot catamaran. So much for my concerns about going off alone with Jack in a private boat. Only one face looked familiar. Alex Ryan worked
in the mayor's office of film. I remembered seeing his face in an article in
New York Magazine,
discussing scouts for film locations. He was one of a small circle of people in the administration who worked for the mayor before he took office. He was about forty, intense, and bursting with nervous energy and impatience. Judging from the pallor of his skin, I saw him as more of a gym rat than someone who would slow down to snorkel and gasp at natural wonders. I had never met him in person, we had only spoken by phone.

There was little conversation on the boat other than brief chitchat about the extraordinary view, and a few uncharitable asides about the less fortunate, back home, suffering the effects of bitter cold.

“Part of Westchester County lost power because of an ice storm,” someone said. We all shook our heads in mock dismay, suppressing tiny gleeful smirks. The only ice here was floating in our drinks. We talked about sailing and sailboats. Of course, Jack had his own sailboat, not to mention a cigarette boat. I guess it went with all the other Hollywood toys that movie types collected.

I closed my eyes, enjoying the breeze against my skin. Physical distance can have a calming effect, or at least give you a long-range perspective, and the more time that I was away, the calmer I felt about Chris. Reilly sat next to me, and even with my eyes closed, I could feel his presence.

 

Buck Island is one of those extraordinary places beloved by glossy travel magazines that feature it on their covers to evoke paradise. It's a small, perfect, untouched swath of beach with sand as fine as face powder and water that's a startling aquamarine. We anchored at Turtle Beach, on the northwest side of the island, for orientation. The tour company supplied snorkeling equipment and we sorted through to find our sizes. After we were suited up, some of the group took a forty-five-minute lesson. Reilly motioned for me to follow him, and I got a quick refresher course, one-on-one. The hardest part was relaxing and breathing easily with my mouth filled with black rubber, but finally, I got over my initial discomfort underwater.

After everyone was familiar with how to use the gear, we got back on board and headed to the southeast side of the island where there is an underwater trail that's the equivalent of a carefully labeled aquatic museum. While in motion, I learned that the island is built on tectonic plates, and that there are cactus, aloe, and as Jack made a point of pointing out, manchineel trees.

“Don't eat the apples,” Reilly said.

“Why?”

“They're poisonous, and so is the whole tree. They say that the sap can blind you if it gets into your eyes.” I didn't know trees like that existed, except for remembering something about tree sap that the Na
tive Americans used on the tips of their arrows to make their direct hits lethal. In any case, I'd be hard pressed if I had to survive in the wild. So instead of a picnic under the manchineel trees, we went into the water, staying on the trail and examining brain coral, elkhorn coral, sea fans, sponges, angelfish and parrot fish that flitted by, undeterred by our presence.

It was a living museum of sea life—no wonder people came here from all over to snorkel. I spotted a sea turtle and pointed it out to Reilly. He nodded, taking my hand and leading me out farther. We swam together for almost an hour and then I motioned that I wanted to go back to rest. We swam to shore, and sat at the edge of the water.

“It's an idyllic place,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I was blown away the first time I saw it,” he said, as if reliving it. “It's one of the most beautiful beaches in the world.”

Probably one of the reasons it was so clean was that it remained uninhabited. Even camping was prohibited. He motioned toward a boat that was approaching.

“They perform wedding ceremonies on board,” he said, almost misty-eyed. I stared out at the unending blue water and fantasized about me saying I do under a peach-colored sky at sunset. The only problem was that I couldn't imagine who the groom would be. And now, I was beginning to doubt that the word
wedding
would ever be in my vocabulary. To make things worse, here I was with a married man who wanted nothing more than a quick affair. My self-pity was mixed with self-loathing. It was my own fault. I turned away.

“So how's your marriage?” I asked. He cocked his head to the side and looked off into the distance.

“We've been together for a long time. We lead pretty independent lives.”

“Kids?”

“Two—twelve and sixteen. What about you, ever been married?”

I shook my head.

“Boyfriend?”

I nodded, scooping up some sand and letting it run through my fingers. “We live together.”

He looked at me for a minute. “But he's not the one,” he said, more as a statement than a question.

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “Just a hunch.” I was ready to protest, when Alex Ryan came out of the water and walked toward us. He had the body of a man who compensates for his lack of height by spending a gazillion hours lifting weights.

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” Alex asked, without waiting for an answer before he flopped down next to us.

Reilly shook his head. “We were just deciding that we were going to stay here and never go back.”

“Who's going to make Hollywood's greatest films?”

“The competition,” Reilly said dryly.

“There is no competition,” Alex said with a sly smile. “Lerner and Dateline send us mugs and flashlight key chains,” he said with a snicker. “You're the only class act in town.”

I sat there, letting the impact of those words sink in. After being out all morning in the sun, it was almost hard to focus and remember what I was doing here. Lerner was another major film company, and so was Dateline. Was Alex implying that unlike Lerner and Dateline who gave them only cheap advertising toys, Jack was footing the bill for their trip? I was tempted to jump up and start swimming back to the mainland.

I was already plotting what I had to do. Who could I reach from here? I didn't know anyone in the billing office of the hotel, but how about a parent company that owned the hotel? I thought back to the young, blond guy who I had seen when I first arrived. I could try to chat him up, or if that failed, try to get into the office when he was out. An offhand remark was one thing, I needed the documentation.

It was on the tip of my tongue to make a smart remark about a Caribbean junket to draw Alex out, but I decided against it, knowing that I'd end up hanging myself. Reilly was pretty savvy. He'd know if I was fishing. I sat back and pretended to be sun
ning myself. But Alex didn't say anything else, and soon a colleague of his joined us. The conversation never got any deeper than a discussion of the cost of buying Bacardi in the duty-free shop, the local fish that they hoped to have for dinner and a brief mention of something called ciguatera poisoning that comes from reef fish that feed on toxic algae found in coral-reef areas. Although it usually doesn't kill you, if you get it,” Reilly said with a laugh, “they say that you wish you were dead.”

Alex shuddered and went on and on about the virtues of the Mediterranean diet, attempting to impress us with his knowledge of monounsaturated fats versus saturated fats and the fishes highest in omega fatty acids. I wanted to ask him how much he knew about the nutritional value of prison food because that might be his next diet.

With just over an hour left before we were to head back, most of the group was eager to spend more time in the water. A few adventurous members suited up and went out deeper with the boat to either snorkle or scuba dive.

Alex said he was joining them—he wanted to explore the depths. I didn't feel comfortable, and I told Reilly to go ahead if he wanted to. He decided to stay behind with me.

So Reilly and I swam together for more of the afternoon until I rose to the surface to take a break. I was heading back to shore when I looked around and
saw arms waving madly in the distance. They were followed by calls for help. Everyone else seemed to be in the water, oblivious, and the captain of the boat was nowhere to be seen. I swam out to Reilly, who was underwater, and grabbed him, motioning for him to follow me.

“What is it?” he said, rising to the surface and pulling off his mask. Before I could answer, we heard another call for help and he spun around and started swimming toward the flailing arms. He swam quickly and easily, like someone who had spent summers during college as a lifeguard, even though now, a couple of decades later, his body was thicker and looser than it must have been then. Moments after he reached the swimmer, I saw who it was.

Alex was in a panic, calling out like a scared kid. Reilly swam up next to him and got there before someone from the boat did. He seemed to be talking to him for a few minutes before swimming back to the boat, towing him behind.

I swam out to meet them. “Is he okay?” I asked Reilly.

“Alex saw something with teeth that looked as though he wanted to play tag,” Reilly said with a small smile. “He took a swipe at Alex, but he's okay.” Alex's face was ashen.