Pelham, the family retainer who’d practically raised Hawke from boyhood, wasn’t having any of it. So here they both reigned in squalid splendor, two happy bachelors in paradise. The fact that a half-century separated their birthdays mattered not a whit. They’d always enjoyed each other’s company and were long accustomed to each other’s idiosyncrasies.
It was six P.M. Hawke’s dinner invitation at Shadowlands was called for eight sharp. The lovebirds, Ambrose and Diana, had only just arrived from England a few days earlier. Hawke was looking forward to a quiet evening spent in the company of two dear friends.
Outside, soft dusk cooled the waning day. Hawke stood at his steamy bathroom mirror, shaving. He’d been ignoring his beard for some few days and was sure his friend Congreve would not approve should he darken Lady Mars’s door unshaven. No doubt, Ambrose would cast a stern eye on his hair as well. His unruly black locks threatened to brush his shoulders. If it got much longer, he’d let Pelham have a whack at it with his kitchen shears.
In the dense banana grove beyond his opened window, the tinkle and zing of nocturnal insects kept him company while he shaved. Another thing he liked about this island: the simple music of everyday life. The birds, the bees, the Bermudians. Every passerby you met seemed to be either singing or whistling some tune or other all day long. Bermudians were happy people. Hawke was happy, too.
“But I say,” Hawke suddenly sang out loud, simultaneously lifting his voice and his chin, scraping the straight razor’s blade upward along his throat, “dat de women of today, smarter than de man in every way…”
He put his straight razor down on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.
Where on earth had that strangled lyric come from? He had a terrible singing voice and seldom used it. At his school in England, there had been two choral groups: the headmaster had named them the Agonies and the Ecstasies. Hawke had been a proud member of the former group. Couldn’t sing a note. He smiled, picked up his blade, and continued shaving, picking up the tune with gusto.
“Dat’s right, de woman is smarter, dat’s right, de woman is smarter…”
Someone was knocking at his bathroom door. Pelham, come to complain about the noise, no doubt.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” came the voice outside.
“What is it?”
He was still warbling the old calypso tune when Pelham rapped again on the loo’s louvered door.
“Yes?” Hawke said, cracking the door an inch with his bare foot.
“Telephone for you, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“A young lady, I believe.”
“Did she give her name?”
“No, m’lord, she did not.”
“What on earth does she want?”
“I couldn’t really say, sir. Something about a painting, sir.”
“Painting? We don’t need any painting.”
“Yes, sir. She’ll pay a fee, but not more than a hundred Bermuda dollars an hour.”
Hawke uttered something unprintable and splashed hot water on his face. Grabbing a towel from the door hook, he wrapped it round his waist and strode down the short hallway that led to the great room. A vintage Bakelite black telephone, the only phone in the house, sat where it always had, at one end of the monkey bar.
Pelham had followed him down the hall and now moved quickly behind the bar. He got busy with a jug of Mr. Gosling’s rum and ice, slicing a juicy lime within an inch of its life, preparing the evening restorative.
Hawke glanced at Pelham with a thin smile. Both men knew it was a bit too early for sundowners, and both also knew this mixology business was only Pelham’s sly ruse for the most blatant form of eavesdropping.
“Hello? Who’s this?” Hawke demanded, snatching up the receiver.
“Is this Hawke?”
“That depends. Who is this?”
“Anastasia Korsakova. We met earlier today, you may recall. I was just telling your…friend that I’m interested in painting you. I pay my models well, but I won’t be bullied.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You. I want to paint you.”
“Paint me? Good Lord. To what end?”
“I’m an artist, Mr. Hawke. I’m having a one-woman show at the Royal Academy in London come spring. I’m doing a series of male figures. Life-size.”
“Why are you picking on me?”
“There is no need to be rude. I think you’d make a good subject, that’s all. And based on your rather quaint… lodging, I assumed you might be a man who’d find the money attractive. Surely you’ve done some modeling in your time, Mr. Hawke. A hundred an hour is not easily come by on this island.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, any number of reasons. I’m a very busy man, for one. I imagine this painting business would require a good deal of sitting around. And I don’t at all like sitting around.”
“Your schedule didn’t seem too full this afternoon. Sleeping on the beach.”
“That was a catnap.”
“Look, I could paint you reclining, if you’d like. You could even sleep on the divan, for all I care. Wouldn’t bother me.”
“May I ask where you got my number?”
“Friends.”
“Friends of mine?”
“Hardly. I would scarcely imagine we travel in the same social circles, Mr. Hawke. No, friends of mine found the number of your cottage for me.”
“You have friends who know my number?”
“I have friends who know everything.”
“Well, look here, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Miss Korsakova, but I’m afraid I’m late for a dinner engagement.”
“Will you consider my offer, Mr. Hawke? I’m really most anxious to get started on you.”
Hawke held the phone away from his ear a moment and accepted a frosted silver cup with a sprig of mint from Pelham. It was really a bit early, but what the hell. He took a sip. Delicious. A fleeting image of a nude goddess emerging dripping from the sea appeared suddenly before his eyes as he put the phone back to his ear.
“Sorry,” Hawke murmured, sipping. “Rum delivery man at the door.”
“Well?” Korsakova asked, impatience frosting the word.
“I’ll sleep on it.”
“Do that. I call you first thing in the morning.”
The line went dead.
“Bloody hell,” Hawke murmured to Pelham. “She wants to paint my picture.”
“So I inferred, sir.”
“Ridiculous. Absolute rubbish.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Are you completely mad?”
Pelham’s bushy white eyebrows went straight up.
“Really, m’lord. One hundred smackers an hour is nothing to sniff one’s nose at. Pretty good gravy, in my view, sir.”
Hawke laughed aloud, threw his head back, and took another healthy swig of Pelham’s delicious concoction before padding off toward his bedroom to strap on the black tie and his Royal Navy dress uniform. It was Saturday night. Congreve had told him they still dressed for dinner at Shadowlands. A quaint practice, but, to Hawke, anyway, an agreeable one.
