“I’ve had it here,” Dex said. “I want to go back to the main hotel. Get back to LA.” Visions of Robby hijacking the band haunted him.
Panicked, Wende looked around for Cooked. She had thought they’d have weeks, if not months, to settle plans.
Ann decided to say nothing about seeing him take off with Titi earlier. She worried that if the other couple left, Richard would want to leave as well. That would effectively close Loren down.
“Anyway,” Dex complained, “the food’s going downhill.”
Richard agreed. “Loren’s not up to his duties.”
“He’s not feeling well,” Ann said. She knew how to press Richard’s buttons. “Why don’t we take over cooking? Don’t you miss it?”
It was an old lawyer’s trick — never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.
“Maybe I could whip something together tonight.” Richard grabbed at the chance to investigate the kitchen that Titi so zealously guarded. Returning from a quick reconnaissance, he announced there would be a feast that night to use the supplies in the refrigerator that were about to spoil. “Instead of snacks, we could have been eating like kings these last days. What’s needed is a little know-how.”
* * *
Something was up with Wende. That afternoon, she appeared wearing a sensible one-piece from her high-school swim team. When not in the water, she covered up in T-shirts and shorts. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. For the first time, she looked like the girl from Idaho she was. She volunteered as sous chef for Richard and chopped vegetables. To Ann she confided that she felt guilty about Cooked and would not sleep with him again.
“I’m not some kind of home wrecker, you know.”
“Did you give Titi your WILD pendant?”
“Reparations.” Wende frowned. “I’ve matured. There are terrible injustices in the world. Not everyone lives in a resort, Ann.”
“That’s true.”
“There are oppressed people,” Wende said under her breath. “I want to make a difference.”
What surprised Wende the most after all these years playing muse was how much spare time she had when she was no longer under the onus of being “hot.” While she wasn’t going to make a federal case out of it, everyone underestimated what it took to be her, or the former her: the WILD hot young thing, muse, groupie, aspiring actress/singer/model of her ex-Wende incarnation. An unimaginable relief to be rid of that burden. For example: the hair. On the island, she allowed it to go au naturel, but back in LA she had a standing semimonthly appointment for highlights with her colorist to get that perfect sun-kissed carefree look. Then there were the hair extensions, which cost a fortune and only looked right when styled by a professional, so she went in every other day to her hairdresser for a shampoo, blow-dry, and finger-curl. Then the face. Facials involving equipment with electrodes, lasers, and pulsed-light gadgets out of Star Trek, and expensive antiwrinkle treatments because even though, obviously, she didn’t have wrinkles yet, they were coming and had to be preempted. So that involved injections of fillers and Botox, and believe her, there was a long line of under-thirty-year-olds waiting for those services. Then there was eyebrow threading and eyelash dyeing, tooth bleaching, not to mention professionally done makeup for special occasions. On really important nights, she had false eyelashes glued on a single hair at a time. And that was just the face. The body required endless trainers, treadmills, medicine balls, and swimming pools, Pilates, yoga, Tae Bo, and weight training. All this while never getting to eat enough of anything, perpetual starvation while attending parties that featured tables weighed down with delicious, fattening food. Thank God she’d never had her boobs done — they were real, though no one believed it — but how long would they look like that? Endless waxing of underarms and legs, and of course the maximal torture that put Brazil on the map, not soccer or nuts or carnival but the tortuous waxing of the privates, Hollywood style. Manicures and pedicures and spray-on tans, and that didn’t even get one out the door dressed. Sometimes she worked so hard on how she looked that by the time she was ready she was too tired to go out and be seen.
* * *
Preparing for the feast, Richard took a mollified Titi out to collect coconuts. Surprisingly, she was docile about the kitchen takeover and made no protests.
Dex and Cooked shook hands (no hard feelings) and smoked pot on the beach. Ann sat on the sand and watched the sunset while she dabbed oil over the burning wound of her tattoo. The unfinished shark had the look of an initiation rite gone bad.
At sunset they gathered for mai tais made by Dex. Loren came out of his fare, resplendent in a dark-red sleeveless T-shirt and a black pareu knotted around his bony hips. He had a tiare flower behind his ear, carrying off the whole Polynesian mixing of feminine with masculine while still looking hot. He cradled a magnum of vintage Burgundy that Richard took charge of decanting.
“In thanks for the patience of my friends. No charge for the last three days.”
Titi flinched as if she had been hit with a stick.
Ann and Richard exchanged looks, the first they had dared in days. Free changed the whole equation, at least for the last three days. Ann wished that she had known in advance so that she could have enjoyed the time more. At the steep price they were paying per day, all inclusive, including the two bottles of alcohol a day (which meant not inclusive enough by half), even paradise could appear parsed and open to criticism: Is this worth it? This hut, this beach, this meal, this sunset? Happiness commodified?
The meal started with an amuse-bouche of tuna sashimi, garnished with a salsa of mango and Maui onion. At first, Titi and Wende served, but as the flow of food increased, Ann pitched in. Giddily she had worked out the math to convince Richard that the three free days should be added to rather than deducted from their allotment of escape. Why couldn’t she get herself to do the responsible thing, pack her bag, and go back home?
As she waited at the stove for the final touches on yet another dish, she noticed Titi in the corner stirring a small blackened iron pot over a stone fire, trying to hide it from Richard’s prying eyes.
“What’s that?” Ann asked.
“Shark fin … other ingredients.”
“A local dish? Are you making it for us?”
Titi gave her a long appraising look. She liked this unhappy woman whom she heard crying at night more often than making love. “Keep a secret? It’s a love potion.”
A couple of weeks before, Ann would have burst out laughing, but her world had been turned upside down. She could accommodate the possibility of this. “For Cooked?”
Titi nodded.
“But we all need it.”
Two things had become clear in Ann’s mind since they had arrived on the island: one, she did love Richard; two, she was done with their previous life. She could only guess at what he was feeling. She supposed he loved her, but he had come back to life when he returned to a kitchen. He, like Dex, had his vocation. Memo to future child: Find something or someone that makes your heart sing. Passion made you like Teflon against life’s disappointments.
Ann ladled Titi’s potion into demitasse cups, then put them on a tray. She would make sure each person drank his or her portion.
“What is it?” Richard asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Consommé. Don’t hurt Titi’s feelings.”
He reached over her and grabbed a cup, critically sipping it. “Needs salt.”
“Finish, or she might kick you out of the kitchen.” Ann watched till his cup was empty.
More appetizers appeared: greens dressed in wasabi vinaigrette, caprese salad of heirloom tomatoes and burrata, tuna carpaccio with giant capers, shrimp in a silky coconut-milk curry. Loren, Cooked, and Dex slowed their eating, but the main courses came at an accelerated pace, a stillborn restaurant’s worth of food: maa tinito, a mixture of red beans, vegetables, and rice that Titi had taught Richard to make; grilled calamari with marinated scallions; tempura zucchini with miso-vinegar dipping sauce; sautéed mahimahi with seared pineapple.