My mouth has gone dry, and I keep it shut so I don’t cough out words to get me in trouble.
“But who did I see checking into her own little bungalow down the beach this morning?” Her chagrin shows in her sad smile. “You guessed it.”
“Ah, no. He didn’t.”
She nods in reply as more tears splash to the deck.
An idea pops into my head. “Listen, love, you shouldn’t be alone right now. I know you must want to just go inside and cry for a while, but what you really need is someone to talk to.”
“Oh, you’re very kind. But really, I’m all right. I’ve known for a long time. I mean, I didn’t have much hope if I was desperate enough — foolish enough — to try to win him back with a stupid bikini, did I?” She’s about to lose it all over again.
“Oh, no, sweetheart. You mustn’t think that way. Besides,” I say, ignoring the warning bells going off in my head, “any man who doesn’t choose this doesn’t deserve it.” I allow myself the luxury of a visual examination, cap a pie with a return, taking the curves slow and pausing at all the junctions.
When I meet her eyes again, they hold a hint of mischievousness and her smile has lost its sadness. My heart races as I watch her deciding how to react to this dirty old, lecherous father figure holding her hands. Oh, how much I want her to invite me inside, to take off what little she has on … but how could I? It would be the ruin of my marriage. And for what? We have nothing in common. She could never be with me for longer than a half hour, an hour tops. Then she’d see her error. And I can’t face someone feeling the same disgust for me that I pretend to feel for Mabel.
Mabel, for all her baggy skin and thinning hair, has aged better than a man has any right to expect. She has always loved me more than I deserved. And the way my anatomy is failing to respond to this young beauty’s touch, I realize I can no longer blame Mabel for my failures.
“But,” I stammer, “of course I wouldn’t know as I’m married myself.” I give her an unconvincing chuckle.
“Yes, I noticed,” she says with a playful pout that melts my knees into wobbly, gelatinous nothings.
I drop her hands and fumble for words. “Well, yes, um.” I smile at her, unable to hide my titillation. “Actually, I, er, have to get to the check-in and look up some pictures on the Internet, you see, so really I must be going.” I can’t stand to leave, but I know if I stay here I’ll do something truly foolish any moment.
“Pictures on the Internet?My goodness. I didn’t take you for that kind of man.” She’s found the chink in my armor. Or rather, she’s found that I have no armor. She’s toying with me like a housecat toys with a baby chick it’s caught. And I am powerless under her velvety, scrumptious paws.
“No, it’s not like that. You see—” I can’t tell her about the bird. It has to be secret until I’m sure of my identification. “I just need … some information. I’m doing research while on holiday. I’m an ornithologist. I study birds.”
She nods with a knowing smile, as though she does not believe me.
“No, really. In fact, I have a bird in my hut. We’re the last hut, right on the end there. It’s hurt, and I think I can help it.”
“Really. You haven’t even asked my name, and you’re already trying to lure me into your bungalow with a story of a hurt baby bird?”
“It’s not a baby. It’s fully grown. And anyway, I’m not luring you anywhere. My wife is there.”
“Karen,” she says.
“What? Oh! Lovely. I’ve always thought Karen a beautiful name. I’m George.”
She gives me a flirty wink and says, “King George. With the sexy accent.”
No amount of sunscreen would keep the redness out of my face right now. This lovely called me sexy.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man. She called your accent sexy. And you’ve only got that because of thousands of years of history. Not because of anything you’ve done.
“Tell you what,” I say with a sudden epiphany. “I really do have to go. But I meant it when I said I don’t think you should be alone right now. So why don’t you come to our bungalow for dinner tonight. Just pop down to the hut and tell Mabel — that’s my wife — that I’ve invited you. I’ll pick up some wine. We already were going to cook pasta anyway, and we’ve got plenty. Not that you eat much, judging from your figure.”
“It’s true. My friends say I eat like a bird.”
“Interesting fact, actually,” I say, only partially aware that I’ve slipped into my professor voice. “Most birds eat half their body weight every single day. So I’m quite sure you don’t eat like a bird. Although your body weight is, I must say, remarkably low.”
That was a terrible recovery. In fact, not much of a recovery at all. Could I be more transparent? I feel my face flush red again, and I quickly excuse myself and rush away toward the shore.
It’s an hour before the Internet terminals come available, and the connection is slow. But by seven o’clock I’ve got what I need. There’s no doubt it’s the Tahitian Sandpiper. How it happened to float to my bungalow, I don’t know. Why no one else has seen one in two centuries — who cares? The fact is, they haven’t. And I am on my way to a top-floor office with a window. Screw Stinson.
Whistling a made-up tune off key, I saunter back down the dock between the huts. I pass Karen’s bungalow and note that the lights are off. My heart gives a little leap complete with clicking
