Part 3 (1/2)
There was nothing to worry about. As for the evening, she would fix Elliot's wagon. She would take the floor first and point out that the Sunday Night Specials were supposed to have programs beneficial to the writers, and she felt there was a lack of interest in Elliot's program, and why didn't they take a vote on it? That would put Elliot in his place, all right.
Five.
The whistle was frankly admiring and subtly erotic. Annie didn't open her eyes. She didn't need to.
”How did you find me?”
”Dear Ms. Laurance, always so direct. I arrived on the ten-thirty ferry.
Since there is only one ferry on Sunday morning, I was forced to count fiddler crabs while waiting. Fascinating creatures. When I reached your snug little island, I immediately rented a condo near the harbor and began my quest. I will confess I was surprised to find that the proprietress of Death On Demand is so slothful that she doesn't open on Sundays, but I recalled that said proprietress is tiringly vigorous and deduced that she would probably be found on the beach, either jogging or swimming. How disappointed I am to find her stretched out on a beach towel with her face covered by the latest issue of Vogue.”
Annie yanked the magazine aside, opened one eye, and squinted. ”I just ran three miles on the beach. How did you know it was me?”
”As has been said in perhaps another context, I would know that body anywhere.”
She opened both eyes and laughed. He looked wonderful, of course. All six foot two inches of him. And she would know his body anywhere, every lean, muscular inch of it. To distract herself, she waved him down beside her.
Max flipped out a blue-and-white striped Ralph Lauren towel and dropped down, spattering sand.
”What took you three months?”
He shoved a hand through his thick, tangly blond hair, and rolled over on his elbow to stare down with ink-blue eyes. ”Didn't your mother ever tell you it was rude to ask direct questions?”
She struggled to a sitting position and fished a sand-filmed bottle of Hawaiian Tropic from her beach bag. Studiously ignoring both Max's body and his eyes, she began slapping the coconut-scented oil on her legs, overlooking his appreciative ”m-mm.”
”Why three months?” she repeated brusquely.
”You didn't call to tell me where you were.”
”No.”
”Why?”
Annie looked up at him, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. ”Dammit, Max, I was afraid you'd persuade me to come back to New York.”
”Would that be so bad?”
This side of Broward's Rock faced out into the Atlantic. A clear, softly blue sky arched overhead. The air carried the pungent scents of salt water, tar, seaweed, and Annie's coconut-scented suntan oil. The water stretched endlessly to the east, as richly green as pea soup; a gentle surf strummed a seven-mile length of oyster-gray sand. There was a sprinkling of sunbathers and swimmers scattered up and down the beach, enjoying the eighty-degree day, but no one was near them. This stretch of beach was all their own.
”Max, it won't work. You don't work. Life is just a joke to you-a compendium of one-liners.”
”So you'd like me better if I were earnest.” He frowned, then the corners of his mouth twitched. ”Let's see. What sufficiently important career could I pursue?” He leaned back on his elbows, staring pensively at the horizon.
Annie fought down a disquieting desire to touch the mat of hair on his chest, glistening a lignt gold in the sunlight.
Sitting bolt upright, he slapped his palm down and sand sprayed against her oiled legs. ”I know. Annie, would you love me if I were a priest?”
”Max!”
He grinned. ”Anglican, of course.”
”Max.” She used both hands to shove him backward, but he caught her as he fell, and they rolled together in the sand.
Max, who had helped brew the coffee, sniffed with theatrical appreciation when Annie poured him a mug. Lifting it to drink, he paused to look at the inscription in red cursive letters against the white background. ”The Listening House. Do houses listen?”
”That's a t.i.tle. If you looked on the bottom, you'd find the author's name.”
Obediently, he raised the mug high enough to see the bottom. ”Mabel Seeley.”
Annie waved her hand abstractedly toward the rows of mugs shelved behind the coffee bar as she filled the cream pitcher. ”Each mug has the t.i.tle of a book which is considered important in the history of mystery novels.” She put the cream pitcher beside the sugar bowl and reached for the corkscrew to open the bottles of sauvignon blanc.
Max moved behind the coffee bar and called out an occasional name that attracted him. ”The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The Thirty-Nine Steps, The Rasp, The Tragedy of Y, The Cape Cod Mystery, Rebecca, Home Sweet Homicide.” He turned to look at her. ”Where did you find these?”
”Oh, I did them.”
”In your little home kiln?”
She laughed. ”No, silly. I didn't make them. I painted the t.i.tles.”
”Annie, I learn something new about you all the time. It never occurred to me that you could paint as well as act.”
”I'm not exactly a threat to Van Gogh,” she pointed out crisply.
He started to count the mugs stacked on the shelves behind the coffee bar but his attention soon strayed. ”You haven't read all those books, have you?”
”Nope. But lots of them.”
”A misspent youth, obviously.”
”I suppose you were busy with Saint Augustine's Confessions?”
”Oh, in a manner of speaking. I suspect old Auggie would have been a Playboy man himself.”
”The point is, he changed his ways.”
”But not altogether for the better.”
Since she wasn't winning this exchange, she concentrated on completing the ham, salami, and cheese tray. Agatha twined expectantly around her ankle. Annie held down a piece of cheddar for her. ”Cats aren't supposed to eat cheese, silly.”
Agatha demanded more, and, like a well-trained owner, Annie obliged.
”How many do you expect?” Max asked.
Among their other activities that afternoon, she'd told Max all about the Sunday evening sessions and Elliot Morgan. After all, it was something else to talk about besides Max's disinclination to toil and her determination to treat life in the serious manner it deserved.
She added them up, one finger after another.