Lassiter came up spitting water, his neck hurting, his ego bruised. “Sure, no problem. Just was thinking about something else. Zigged when I should have zagged.”
“Concentration, it’s the most important thing. Stay there a second.” In a moment, Lila Summers was beside him in the water, their boards floating alongside. She faced him while they both treaded water, the hooks from their harnesses clanging against each other.
She was close enough to kiss, so he did, her lips salty and yielding. She kissed him back and wrapped her legs around him and his neck stopped hurting, and then the skies opened and a hard rain pelted them, and still they kissed but now the swells tumbled over them, growing with the squall that roared from the northeast.
“Getting a little radical out here,” Lassiter said, coming up for air. “I have an idea.”
“I was hoping you did.”
With the wind howling like a betrayed lover, they water-started in unison, two sails whisked out of the water on cue, each sailor slipping into the foot straps and hooking harnesses to the booms, the storm a raucous symphony around them. Tricky now with the swells building and the wind rising to gusty crescendos then falling off to diminuendo lulls.
Lassiter luffed the sail and took a cautious approach. Once past the tip of the island, they headed west into the protected waters of the bay, the land mass of Key Biscayne taking some of the sting out of the wind. In a few minutes they were at Stiltsville, a collection of twenty wooden houses on stilts smack in the middle of the bay. After Hurricane Andrew, half the structures had splintered into driftwood. The ones that remained were sagging onto their pilings and needed a fresh coat of paint, if not a complete rebuild by structural engineers.
Reachable only by boat, the houses sat empty most of the time. Fifty years ago, you could shoot craps there. Now doctors, lawyers, and bankers owned the houses and used them mainly for weekend family outings with an occasional extracurricular session on a weekday afternoon for the married guys.
Lila Summers followed him to a white house with faded green shutters and a wooden deck. They tied their boards to one of the stilts and climbed weather-beaten steps to the front door. The house belonged to his law firm, and like many a grown man’s toys, was little used. Lassiter opened the combination lock, and with the squall raging and the cold rain chilling them, they hurried inside. The house was dark and stuffy, so they opened the shuttered windows on the leeward side to let in some air without the rain.
They found towels and a bottle of red wine. He dried her, and she dried him. They talked about the storm and about the race and about everything except the subject at hand: each other and the possibilities that awaited. After a moment, Lila explored the house, her bare feet leaving wet imprints on the floor. She padded through the large, open Florida room, a mounted sailfish dominating one wall, a nautical map another. She walked through the two bedrooms in the back, then rejoined Lassiter at the counter in the kitchen.
She drained her glass of wine and said, “I was still in high school when I met Keaka. I looked up to him. I still do. He’s the only man I’ve been with, and he’s been completely faithful to me.”
It was the beginning of intimacy, Lassiter knew, plus a medical background, so important these days.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’ve never been with Keaka,” he said.
She ran her hand through his hair. “Are you one of those men who doesn’t talk?”
He talked. He talked about the women who had sailed through his life, Susan Corrigan, the sportswriter, Dr. Pamela Metcalf, the English psychiatrist, Lourdes Soto, the private investigator, and Gina Florio, now Gina de La Torre, the ex-Dolphin Doll who kept dancing in and out of his bedroom. Then, in the spirit of the times, he told her he had a blood test every six months at the county health department, and the only thing wrong came from eating too much red meat.
She gestured with her glass for more wine. Then the hand that held the glass circled his head and she pulled him toward her. They kissed softly. He cradled her face in his hands, and the kiss lasted, and with eyes closed he heard the small waves breaking against the pilings. Rain pinged off the metal roof. In the distance, thunder echoed. Wordlessly, Lila stepped out of her white suit and pulled the drawstring on Lassiter’s old surfer trunks. The squall had worked its way around the tip of Key Biscayne and the wind roared, and even with the shutters open, it was dim inside. In the Florida room, they lay on the floor on their towels and explored each other’s bodies, and Jake Lassiter imagined they were floating on a raft, for the wooden floor seemed to pitch with the waves, his equilibrium still at sea. They made love tentatively at first but then Lila arched her back and her breasts pressed against his chest and she tightened her strong legs around his buttocks and locked him tight into her.
Lila purred in his ear. He moved slowly, and she tugged at his shaggy sun-bleached hair, gripping hard until it hurt. Pulling back his head, she nibbled at his lower lip, then bit down hard enough to draw blood. He never winced, but bit her back, though gently. She sucked at his wounded lip, and their tongues danced, and they kissed harder and deeper until their teeth struck.
A flash of lightning reflected off the water and illuminated the room. Thunder rumbled, and the house seemed to vibrate.
With his eyes closed, Lassiter felt the tide surge toward a distant beach, heard water breaking against a rocky shore. He imagined a beach of red sand and a jungle of green vines. He thought of valleys carved in volcanic rock, pictured a thousand war canoes lit by torches on a black sea, and saw orange flames rising from molten lava. He felt the wet heat rising from both of them as their gears meshed, and they moved to the same silent music.
Later, they lay there together, bodies slicked with sweat and salt water. He looked at her but didn’t say a word.
“Jake, don’t blink those blue eyes at me,” Lila Summers said. “I know what you want to ask but won’t, so here it is. It was pleasurable, enjoyable. You’re a wonderful lover. The fact that it wasn’t a hydrogen bomb — that it’s never been — shouldn’t bother you. It doesn’t bother me.”
Lassiter was silent. “And don’t pout,” she said. “You’re a very special man, everything I thought you would be, strong but sensitive, and it was very nice, really.”
Very nice. Very nice is okay for Granny Lassiter’s pot roast, not this ethereal experience. At least it had been that for him. They were silent. The rain still pelted the roof, but lighter now. Lassiter walked to the window in a daze, his joy tinged with disappointment. A brown pelican sat on one of the wooden pilings, its pouch empty, scanning the shallow water. Small waves sloshed against the pilings, a sleepy sound.
Jake Lassiter looked at Lila, naked on the towel, and saw the last train leaving the station. There would be no more women like this — young and beautiful and unspoiled. She has never tasted defeat, he thought, and cannot imagine it. How long had it been since he figured he would never sit on the Supreme Court or stake his life on principle like an Atticus Finch? How long since he realized he would never be All-Pro, or All-Anything? It was creeping up on him and the train started moving now, and he would run for it and leap aboard and wherever it went, it didn’t matter.
“Li’a, Goddess of Desire, I want to say things to you that no one ever has. My head is full of music and poetry but it’s all jumbled up, and all I can think of is, Grow old along with me…”
“…The best is yet to be,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows and Lila laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. We studied poetry at Seabury Hall on Maui, but to tell the truth, I always found Robert Browning a bit sappy. I preferred Housman”:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honors out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
“But that’s a little melancholy, isn’t it?” Lassiter asked. “An athlete dying young.”
“Not melancholy at all, an athlete or warrior going out in a blaze of glory.”
Jake Lassiter shook his head, in the mood to talk of romance, not blazing death. “You didn’t happen to learn any poems about Li’a at your highfalutin school, did you?”
Me ‘oe ka ‘ano ‘i pau ‘ole… With you an unending desire.
“Perfect,” he said. “The rest?”
