Part 6 (1/2)
”Why?”
”Same reason.”
”There isn't anything there for you.”
Monica lowered her sungla.s.ses. ”Do you have some illegitimate children down there you want to tell me about? Are you wanted by the law? Because I don't believe it's just about uncomfortable memories.”
Bruce gave her an acid look. Monica looked out at the approaching sh.o.r.e. She spotted her narrow, two-story cottage with its double layer of decks facing the sea among the tightly packed crowd of beach homes. It was Bruce's future retirement home, and Monica paid the mortgage while she was living there. It surprised her that he had elected a house by the sea. She would have expected him to look for something buried deep in the forests, something more solitary and landlocked, like him.
”Dad,” Monica said softly as their boat approached the sh.o.r.e, ”do you remember that time Mom took me to watch a birth and the girl gave the baby to me?”
Bruce looked up from behind the rim of his hat. ”Yeah.”
”Why didn't we keep him?”
Bruce got out of the boat and tossed the cooler onto the seawall. He got a scaling knife out and began to gut the fish, tossing the fish parts into the water. He rinsed everything off with a garden hose from the neighbor's yard. ”Your mother didn't want any more kids and I wasn't home nearly enough to take responsibility for an adopted child. Besides, look what a mess our family turned out to be. He's better off.”
”What about what you wanted, Dad? Why was it always about what she wanted?”
”Parenting requires buy-in from both sides.”
”Did you guys try counseling or anything like that?”
Bruce turned his head suddenly, as if the conversation had suddenly crossed a line into the distasteful. He took a deep breath and Monica understood that this was the last thing he was going to say on the subject. ”We didn't need anyone to tell us what was wrong with us. We knew exactly what was wrong with us.”
They packed their fish in freezer bags. ”Fish for strength, fish for stealth,” Monica intoned as she rearranged the frozen strawberries and chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s to make room in her freezer.
chapter 6 A SHARK TOOTH.
On Thursday, Monica rushed home from work to freshen up and change into loose cotton clothing before her evening appointment. Her father had given Will Lucero his ma.s.sage time slot as thanks for the interview. Monica had protested that he had no right to do that, but of course by then it was too late. ”Besides,” Bruce had said, ”you owe him something for getting Sylvia all riled up about cone venom”
She opened her front door at ten minutes to six. ”Hola,” ”Hola,” Will said, bending down to kiss her politely on the cheek. Will said, bending down to kiss her politely on the cheek.
She pointed over her shoulder toward the interior of the house. ”I'm ready for you,” she said, her standard greeting suddenly sounding provocative. She bit her lip. As he pa.s.sed, she noticed that he smelled freshly showered-of Ivory soap and clean cotton. His hair was still wet.
Will approached the large picture window in her living room that faced the water. He crossed his arms and said, ”There's just something about the water ... it's so peaceful.”
Monica gave him a tour of the downstairs and the deck, but stopped short at the stairs leading up to the second floor. He complimented her taste in furnis.h.i.+ngs, the black-and-white photography in paper-thin black frames, hung in cl.u.s.ters throughout the house.
”You could paint this wall a bold color like indigo blue or black cherry,” he said, making wide, sweeping motions in front of the cutout wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area. ”Maybe with some light texturing. It would completely rebalance this room. You could pick up any of those three colors from the rug under your dining set. You have so much light in here.” Monica folded her arms over her chest and stuck her lower lip out as she considered it. Will said, ”I'm the finance guy at my family's company, but I watch the decorators. I'm always amazed what color on the walls can do to change a room and create a mood.”
”I need something to offset the gloominess that sets in after October.”
Will put a hand on his chin and looked around. ”Then what you need is b.u.t.ter- or lemon-colored walls. Details in tangerine. Poppy. Fuchsia. You'll be so happy all the time, you won't be able to stand yourself.”
Monica laughed and thought, I like him I like him. She said, ”This entire part of the country is plagued by too much gray, white, brown. Maybe we should all paint our houses in crazy colors like they do in the Bahamas. It would be so wonderfully defiant to have a watermelon-colored house.”
”Especially in January, when there's three feet of snow on the ground.”
Monica stepped into the kitchen. ”Can I get you anything to drink before we get started?”
”Water is fine,” he said, following her. He cleared his throat. ”I had no idea you were a Latina. When your dad told me you were born and raised in Central America, I was floored. You're tall, slim; you have green eyes, no accent. I would have guessed you were Irish. You are definitely hard to place, ethnically speaking.”
Monica smiled and hunched her shoulders, handing him a gla.s.s. ”Really?”
”What did your mom look like?” He followed her out of the kitchen, and she walked over to a blond wood table that ran along the wall at the foot of the staircase. She grabbed an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven photo in a polished silver frame and handed it to Will.
”It's you,” he said.
”No, it's my mother. You think it's me because she's squinting and you can't see her eyes that well.”
They stood staring at Alma's photo for a moment. A shark tooth hung from Alma's neck, glowing bright in the sun like a tiny dagger. A thin blindfold of her long, coiled black hair was blowing over her laughing face. Will looked up at Monica, then back at the picture and back at Monica. ”Amazing. The smile is exactly the same.” He handed her the frame. ”She's beautiful.”
Monica thanked him, blus.h.i.+ng at the reflected compliment, and had to spend a few extra seconds fussing over the items on the table so as not to have to turn and look at him right away.
”So are you ready?” she said cheerfully, looking at her watch. ”Six o'clock on the nose. Would you prefer to be ma.s.saged out on the deck or here inside?”
Will craned his neck and looked outside, raised one eyebrow. ”It's a bit muggy outside. How about right here? We still get the view.”
Monica nodded. Her ”soothing ma.s.sage” CD was ready to go and her ma.s.sage creams were warming in a pump bottle plugged into the wall. ”Do you have boxers on under there?” she asked, pointing to his pants, blus.h.i.+ng uncontrollably this time. ”Or do you need to borrow a pair?”
Will smiled and said, ”No, I'm all set. Where's the bathroom?”
She pointed to the half bath next to the entrance. He walked down the hall, bending down to scoop up a small duffel bag that Monica had not noticed before. She heard him banging his elbows against the walls of the small half bath. She remembered his fall in her office. Was he accident-p.r.o.ne? She was pondering this when he came out, bare-chested, with biker's shorts poking out of another pair of more loosely fitting athletic shorts. Monica was both impressed by his physique and relieved by his modesty. Some of her clients chose to wear nothing but a towel.
”I don't know if you're interested, but I have some extra faucet k.n.o.bs I could give you for that half bath. They're the old-fas.h.i.+oned porcelain kind that are labeled HOT HOT and and COLD COLD in black letters. I think they'd look nice with the antique white linen theme you have going on in there.” in black letters. I think they'd look nice with the antique white linen theme you have going on in there.”
Monica patted the ma.s.sage table. ”Yes, I'd love them. Now, no more redecorating. Just lie down here and stare out at the water for me.”
”I'm sorry, I hope I'm not being obnoxious.”
”No, no. I just want you to forget your work and relax.”
He lay down. Soon he was under the spell of her healing hands, and her fingers glided over the vastness of his freckled back. No thin sliver of neck tension here. This man had solid tension everywhere, the kind that came from rigorous physical activity combined with intense emotional stress. His oohs and aahs came quickly and spontaneously, especially when she flattened out the palm of her hand and pressed down on the muscle centers, radiating the heat of their inflammation. She accidentally brushed his lips with the yoke of one finger while she ma.s.saged his face. He opened his eyes and looked at her, smiled, then turned his head and closed his eyes again. She felt a spark of pleasure spiral its way down through her body, and it made her terribly uncomfortable.
Instead of trying to tune in to the language of her client's body-those little clues and patterns of the body that spoke so loudly-she made an effort to tune them out. She tried to focus on the skill of her own movements, to pace her breathing so that she wouldn't tire so fast. After all, deep-tissue ma.s.sage on a muscular man took a great deal of strength. She couldn't help but notice the little bruises here and there, the way he recoiled slightly when she pressed them.
”Is someone beating you?” Monica asked. ”I've counted five bruises already.”
”Oh, it's just from working like an idiot. I'm so crazed all the time, rus.h.i.+ng around and trying to do too many things. For the last two weeks I've been b.u.mping into stuff, falling off chairs, tripping on rugs.”
”This might hurt a little, but it helps distribute the blood that's pooled under there.” She rubbed the bruises, then slapped them lightly. ”They'll go away in two or three days. Is there anything you can drop to make life a little easier on yourself?” She put her hand flat on his back. ”Don't answer that. It's just a question I pose to all my clients, something for you to consider. A tiny bit of restraint can save your neck, your back, your feet, you name it. Stress is so expensive in the end.”
”That's why I sail on Tuesdays,” he mumbled. ”It's one big deep-brain-tissue ma.s.sage. It gets the bad gunk out. Clears my head.”
Monica squirted fresh ma.s.sage cream into her hands while he continued, ”But even with the antistress effects of sailing, I'm still sore around my neck, my shoulders, along my spine. Three of our guys called in sick on the same day this week, so I had to pitch in with the heavy lifting.”