“What? What is it?” she says with concern.
I put a hand against the shower wall to steady myself. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
My back is still to her, but I do not need to see her to know the dejected expression on her face. Deflated, she rests her head against my shoulders, holding me still but without the fiery urgency of just a few seconds ago.
She returns to bed. I finish showering and join her in bed where we lay side by side in the dark, not speaking, not touching, but listening to the sound of the sea until we fall asleep.
Chapter Four
The next morning we dress casually for breakfast. We do not mention the events from the night before. I feel that I owe Gwen an explanation, but she blithely buzzes around our room, applying sunscreen and make-up, planning our schedule for the day. I know her ruined attempt at lovemaking is forefront in her thoughts, but an outside observer would be unable to tell it.
The restaurant is half-empty; many of the guests have a head start on us and are already splashing about in the surf or lounging on chairs under the palm trees. Bill and Pamela sit at a small table for two and a friendly hostess seats us next to them.
“Ah, isn’t this view simply marvelous,” Pamela beams and gestures to the pristine tropical sea. The beach is blinding white, the sea dappled turquoise and blue. Hundreds of white butterflies stream past us. They head in the same direction, hugging the coast, fluttering on the breeze like a tropical ticker-tape parade.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” Gwen remarks.
“One of the staff told us this is part of the butterflies’ annual migration,” Bill explains. “They are bound for South America. It really is something. You picked a good time of year to book a holiday here. Just think—a week later or earlier and you would have missed this spectacle of nature.”
A server brings Pamela and Bill their breakfast and takes our order.
“So, what is on your agenda for the day?” Pamela asks us once the server is gone.
“I was hoping to go snorkeling,” Gwen replies.
“Yes, that does look like a lot of fun,” Pamela agrees. “After breakfast we’re going to tour the nature preserve. Why don’t you join us?”
We accept their invite. A winding paving stone path leads from the bungalows and other resort buildings that line the shore to the nature preserve. The nature preserve only spans a few acres, not counting the lagoon. Much of the terrain of the island is relatively arid—dry grasses, the occasional scraggly tree and bush—but here near the lagoon the setting is more lush. Huge bushes, heavy with fragrant, trumpet shaped flowers, crowd along the edge of the path. The palms and other trees are tall and close together. With just a few steps into the nature preserve the sound of the sea and any other sounds emanating from the resort disappear.
“I feel like I am in another world—some place prehistoric, untouched by man,” Gwen whispers, and touches a thick vine that rises into the canopy.
A group of hermit crabs, oblivious to our approach, wanders across our path.
“Aren’t they far from the beach?” Gwen asks.
“These are land crabs—they live near the water but not in it,” Bill answers. “I used to own one as a boy many, many moons ago. See that large crab bringing up the rear? The one with the big purple claw? That’s the male. The others are females; they comprise his harem. He is probably the largest crab around and he uses that purple claw to ward off the smaller males and keep the females all to himself. In the animal kingdom, it pays to be big. Our big, purple clawed lothario here is making certain his DNA is passed on.”
“And the smaller males—where are they?” Gwen looks around.
“I think I hear them under some leaves… weeping,” Pamela jests.
Pamela steps over the marching column of crabs. “Sorry to disturb your crustacean orgy.”
We laugh and proceed on. Bill aims his camera at an emerald hued hummingbird sipping nectar from a flower. “Don’t fly away, you little bugger. There—got it,” he shows us the digital photo on the back of the camera. “That should do quite nicely in the scrapbook.”
“Oh, look at this charming fellow,” Pamela points to a neon colored tree frog resting nearby on a leaf.
“Darling, it might be poisonous,” Bill warns. “Don’t touch it.”
“Really, Bill? And I was just about to put it in my hair,” she replies with sweet sarcasm to which we all laugh.
The air hums with the croaking of frogs, the strange cries of unseen birds, and the droning buzz of insects. Near the lagoon, the staff has cleared some of the trees for benches, which afford us a prime view of the lagoon. A white crane stalks fish in the reeds near the waters edge. Large flocks of birds paddle on the surface of the lagoon. Fluttering past them, as they did on the beach, are the migrating white butterflies.
Gwen wraps an arm around my waist. “I’m so glad we’re here. This place is unlike anywhere I’ve ever been.”
I kiss her suddenly, and surprise myself as much as Gwen. I pluck a large scarlet flower and tuck it into her hair.
She takes my hands and stands before me as a bride does when she takes her vows. “This place is so beautiful, Phillip. I feel light… weightless. Does that make any sense? It must be what a newborn baby feels like, when you have no yesterdays—only tomorrow.”
At this moment, I am not thinking of the past and all the bitterness that lurks there. I make a secret wish that it will always be like this—the two of us together, free of all baggage, the past forgotten, the future a blank page upon which we can write our dreams.
“Now how did he get up there?” Pamela asks, shielding her eyes against the sun and pointing to a wild goat perched on the edge of the cliffs that ring the resort.
“That goat is either very nimble or very stupid,” Bill says as he focuses his camera on the animal. The goat grazes on the scrubby bushes that grow along the rocky face of the cliffs, and watches us with far less interest than we display towards it before wandering out of view.
We head back to our rooms, passing other couples enjoying the preserve along the way. Our breakfast digested, we part company from Bill and Pamela and change into our bathing suits. When my bare feet hit the sand, I feel a boyish exuberance.
“Look at you—you can’t wait to dive into the ocean,” Gwen smiles beneath her wide straw hat. “Go for it.”
And I do. I run straight from our doorstep down the sloping beach and dive into the water.
“Is it cold?” she asks.
I shake the water from my hair. “It’s wonderful. Not quite bathwater temperature.”
Gwen joins me. “Let’s get the snorkeling equipment,” she suggests.
Lorenzo, a young island man, is in charge of all the nautical equipment—kayaks, flippers, masks and the hobie cats. He is my island twin—slight of build and height—with striking hazel colored eyes.
“The best reefs are at either end of de resort. Plenty fish out dere for you to see,” he advises as he hands us the snorkeling equipment.
“No sharks, I hope,” Gwen says.
Lorenzo laughs. “No, miss, no sharks here. At least no big ones. Maybe little, baby sharks. Don’t worry. You go have fun—enjoy yourself.”
We walk to the end of the beach where the cliffs that encircle the resort slope down and meet the water. No other guests are this far down the beach, which is a good thing because we look ridiculous, stomping towards the water in our flippers and masks. Swimming side by side, we glide above the coral formations that create underwater canyons. Gwen taps my side and points to a lime colored moral eel undulating in the crevices. Sunlight flickers on a clump of brain coral staunchly defended by tiny shrimp. Black sea urchins, their sharp spines jutting in all directions, lie in clusters and schools of fish swirl around us. We swim a bit farther and disturb a stingray hidden in the sand beneath us. I spot a large barracuda hovering motionless just beneath the waves, probably waiting for a fish to straggle into the open water. A translucent jelly fish pulses by us, as delicate as a scrap of old lace, and we give it a wide berth.