One day Richard came to Ann’s office unannounced at lunchtime. “Grab a bite?”
“Sure.”
On the drive to Richard’s favorite gourmet hot dog stand, she said nothing, fearing that he had found out about the affair.
“I’ve been fired,” he said as he took the first bite of his grilled cipollini onion, horseradish-mustard-slathered veggie dog.
“Why?”
“I told them I wouldn’t work with foie gras or veal any longer. I told them my preference was that they be taken off the menu. These meats in particular are harvested using inhumane methods.”
“Oh, honey.”
“I have to stand up for what I believe in. It’s been killing me. You are the reason I get up every morning, and I hurt you like this.”
“Oh.”
If only she could take back the last month, but that genie wasn’t going back in the bottle. Guilt for betraying Richard, who loved her. More guilt for enjoying her afternoons with Javi so much. Guilt for not breaking up with Richard, or with Javi, for that matter.
“I was going to propose when I got promoted to line chef.”
“Oh.”
“Now what?”
“How about opening your own restaurant?”
Richard nodded. “That’s my dream, but not yet. We don’t have the money or experience.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Richard was excited by the prospect of his own place but scared at the reality. Ann didn’t know enough about the business to help. That’s when she thought about Javi. The next afternoon while in his bed, she brought her plan up.
“You need what he offers,” she said.
“What about us?”
“Us ends.”
But not before a last afternoon-into-the-early-evening of amor. She chastly kissed Javi on the forehead as she left.
Armed with a master plan, Javi and Richard moved to a new, high-concept restaurant chain and quickly went through the ranks from commis to sous chefs. Richard, with Javi covering for him during really noxious duties, did all the rotations, spending extra time (no Javi) as garde manger, legumier, potager, and entremetier; less time (50 percent Javi) as friturier, grillardin, and rôtisseur; no time (all Javi) as boucher. Surprisingly he excelled as saucier and was promoted to sous position ahead of Javi, but Richard was nothing if not loyal. Ann did her part by working long hours at FFBBP to raise capital.
Ten years later Ann’s memory of being with Javi was as unthinkable as incest. Not quite that bad, but knowing Javi and his history with women had cured Ann of ever being tempted again.
* * *
Hours passed. Ann swam and walked farther than she had ever gone before around the island. The solitude was so complete she couldn’t imagine it being broken. Her thoughts, instead of heading as usual to fixing the disaster of their life back home, stayed right on the island, right in the moment. Even though a week before Richard and she had been on the brink of the success they had so struggled for, today she couldn’t summon much sadness for its passing. How could a sacrifice of ten years be wiped away in a week and not matter? What was wrong with that picture? Did they know that the restaurant would be a success? What if El Gusano turned out to be just another type of prison? Was she becoming gun-shy of commitment of any kind? It felt like she had only done the prep work and skipped the climaxes of her professional life — partnership at the firm, running a restaurant. Already she was at the denouement. For the first time in her carefully planned life, the future remained opaque.
Surprisingly, it didn’t feel as bad as she thought it would.
She was gazing up the beach, feeling like some cross between a castaway and a mystic, when she saw it. A sight that literally stopped her in her tracks and took her breath away.
Her head pounded. The first thing that came to mind was the scene she had read in Robinson Crusoe—when after living alone for many years Crusoe found that single human footprint in the sand of his deserted isle. Far from making him happy, it terrified him. Granted, cannibalism was a problem she thankfully didn’t have. This was a twenty-first-century footprint. She felt dizzy, and then the reality of her nakedness occurred to her. One arm went across her breasts; the other covered her pubic area. Her chest went concave, as if she were less visible that way. Ann turned and ran, realizing, too late, that her bare ass was in full view.
It took her half an hour to scour the beach backward toward the resort for the heart-shaped cove and clump of five palms, where she found her string bag but no brown bathing suit. When she had retraced her steps to said cove for the fifth time with still no bathing suit in sight, she gave up and scurried to the resort. Her previous confidence and joy in her nakedness, her oneness with nature, had evaporated, replaced by the primal terror one had in dreams of appearing naked. Except she wasn’t dreaming. What were the odds — the first time she had done such a thing — that this would happen? Chastened, she was frantic to hide all evidence of her lapse.
The dive boat had returned and was tied up at the dock, but thankfully no one was in sight. She hid behind a palm for a minute, surveying the empty path, then made her run for her fare on the other end of the beach. Behind her a door slammed, but she did not dare turn, just barreled straight ahead, determined on invisibility. As she jumped on the lanai and placed her hand on the doorknob, she distinctly heard a wolf whistle. She did not look back.
* * *
The scuba diving ménage à trois had taken an interesting turn that day. Before they took off, Richard as usual checked the gas level in the boat, made sure there was an extra can of petrol, established that the radio was operational. Cooked was much too lax. Earlier Richard had talked Loren into teaching him how to check the gas levels in the scuba tanks and inspect them for leaks. On his own initiative, he gave the mouthpieces a quick antibacterial swipe.
A pattern had developed over the previous outings: At first the three of them would take off and look at things together. Then Dex and Wende would swim away, and Richard obligingly swam in the opposite direction to give them privacy. The first time he was alone, he heard a crunching sound, like someone eating cereal. He thought he was hallucinating when he spotted its source: a beautiful green-and-blue fish, munching on coral. Sometimes Richard was so still, fish came and nibbled on him as if he might be edible. He liked these nibbles and never shooed the fish away. Afterward his skin would have small purplish bites like miniature hickeys. Richard was growing to cherish these times when his mind was so concentrated on the sights around him — lacy fans of white coral; clumped brain coral in magenta, apricot, and green; clown fish; manta rays; sea turtles; blue starfish — that he literally lost himself until either Cooked or Wende swam to get him.
Needless to say, he greatly preferred Wende’s visits: the halo of blond hair floating, the flipper-elongated mermaid legs, the sparkle of belly button ring. He even liked how her lower jaw and mouth looked under the mask, like a goofy Muppet, making the beauty of her whole face less intimidating. Her running joke was to sneak up behind him and pull on the elastic waistband of his swim trunks, then let go, snapping him. When, lost in his fishy daydreams, he startled and sputtered in his mouthpiece, she found this hilarious. She would tap on his air gauge, indicating it was time to surface, and then they would ascend side by side, air bubbles promiscuously mixing, their heads finally breaking above water, masks crowning their foreheads.