Island Girls: A Novel Read online

  “It gets me every time,” Meg confessed.

  Jenny took her hand. “Me, too.” They sobbed together.

  The movie ended. The room was still.

  “I am totally exhausted,” James gushed. “Too many good-looking men in uniforms.”

  “I want a space uniform,” Manuel pouted.

  “I want to go to bed.” Tim stood up, stretching. “What a day.”

  “It was fabulous,” James agreed.

  The group rose, yawning, searching out blankets, pillows, water glasses, and finally calling out good night.

  FOURTEEN

  She wasn’t hungry. How could she be hungry after such a party? She shouldn’t eat, anyway, she was already too fat.

  But she was restless. She turned on the light on her bedside table and tried to read. Her mind wouldn’t settle. The words flitted around, making no sense.

  Liam and Jenny had been gone for over an hour, “getting an ice cream cone.” Oh, sure.

  Yet, she’d been the one to send Liam straight into Jenny’s slender arms.

  Okay. That was a good thing. That was the right thing to do.

  Still, she was hungry. Starving. She didn’t want anything sweet. Something substantial, salty. Maybe some of that potato salad.

  It was one o’clock. She crept out of her bedroom. The master bedroom door was shut, with James and Manuel sleeping. Jenny’s door was shut. Meg paused, holding her breath. No sounds coming from behind the door. So probably Liam wasn’t in there with her. Not that Meg cared.

  She stole down the stairs. The house was dark and quiet. She passed the living room and heard Arden’s friend Serena sweetly snoring on the sofa.

  In the kitchen, she took a moment to let her eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Opening the refrigerator, she scanned the contents; she squinted in the dim light. Plastic-covered containers were piled on one another. Beer and white wine lined the door. She shuddered. Maybe she wasn’t hungry after all.

  She shut the door, turned, and stifled a scream.

  Liam stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing only his boxers.

  He said, “Hey.”

  She said, “Hey.”

  “What are you doing up?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Hungry,” she whispered. “You?”

  “Sunburn,” he told her. “Thought I’d look for some lotion.” He gestured toward the hall with his hand. “I looked in the bathroom down here. None there.”

  “Right.” Meg couldn’t help staring at the man. His lean, lanky form carried an elegance in its very stance. He looked like a nineteenth-century poet. George Gordon, Lord Byron, without the clubfoot. Oh, just kill me now. “I have some upstairs in my room,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll survive.” He started to turn away.

  “No, really. You’re fluorescent.” She smiled easily, moving toward him. “Come on up. I’ll rub it on your back.” She put her hand on his wrist, intending to tug him along, but her fingers ignited when they touched his skin, sending heat scorching through her like a wildfire. She jerked her hand away.

  She was hideously conscious of him following her upstairs. She wore a discreet cotton nightie trimmed with lace on the bodice. It fell below her bum, but she wasn’t sure it covered the tops of her thighs, especially from Liam’s point of view behind her.

  Quietly, they went down the hall and into her room. Her bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the small room and her bed, with the sheets tossed back.

  Liam shut the door. “So we don’t wake the others,” he explained.

  Meg’s mouth was dry. “I’ll get the lotion.” She went to her dresser and searched among her makeup, jewelry, and creams.

  Liam was bending over her desk. “What a great view.”

  “Sit down. I’ll rub the cream in.” What am I doing! she silently screamed at herself. If she touched the man, she’d be lost.

  She touched him.

  Liam sank into the small cane-seat chair, crossing his arms on her desk. Her laptop, a closed silver rectangle, lay surrounded by piles of books and papers. “You work here.”

  She dabbed lotion onto her fingertips, then gently swirled the lotion on his wide and rather bony shoulders. “I do,” she agreed, although she could scarcely speak.

  “Ah,” Liam murmured. “That feels good.”

  She smoothed the lotion onto the base of his neck, where it got caught in the ends of his thick golden hair. The knobs of his spine protruded against her hands as she spread the lotion down his back. His skin was hot to the touch. She knew from seeing him in his bathing suit earlier in the day that he had hair on his chest and belly but none on his back, but now she saw the lightest golden downy fluff where his boxers’ elastic waist met his spine. He had a mole by his right shoulder blade.

  Liam turned in the chair. He stood up. “You’re not burned, and your skin is as pale as mine.”

  “I wear lots of sunblock,” she told him. They had never stood so close together before. Her heart was trying to jump out of her chest and into his. She stood holding the lotion in both hands like an offering. “Want some on your nose?”

  He shook his head. “No. This is what I want.” He put his hands on each side of her face and steadied her as he brought his mouth to hers in a lingering kiss.

  Her heart was leaping. She was trembling, and she had the most terrible fear that she was going to cry. She whispered, “Liam.”

  He took the bottle from her hand and set it on the desk. He put his hand on her wrist just as she had downstairs put hers on his, and led her to her bed. He sat down on her bed and pulled her to him, so that she stood there, caught between his long legs. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled his head into her midriff, her belly, her pelvis. It was the most tender nudging through the cotton, and she felt his need deep in her body.

  She put her hands in his hair. Thick golden hair. She leaned down to kiss the top of his head, and as she did, her breasts swung forward.

  “My God, Meg.” Liam put his mouth on her breasts, soaking the cotton and the lace, his lips and tongue skidding the wet lace against her nipples. He slid his hands up her legs, caught the waistband of her panties, and tugged down.

  She stepped out of her panties. Liam stood up and pulled her nightie over her head. She stood naked before him. He dropped his boxers and he was naked with her. He put his hands on her shoulders and delicately drew her down onto her back on the bed, then knelt between her legs. She was trying as hard as she could to suck in her stomach, to make it look flat, which it never had been in her entire life, but when he eased himself down against her, she drew in a deep breath and forgot how she looked.

  He didn’t enter her immediately. He kissed her mouth again, and the sides of her face, and down her throat and across her collarbones, and the tips of her breasts, which made her moan and arch upward, and then he eased into her, slowly. He was longer and wider than she’d anticipated. She ached with pleasure. She couldn’t touch his back or his shoulders—the sunburn—so she put her hands on his buttocks. Liam groaned helplessly and thrust forward fiercely, burrowing his head in the pillow next to her, turning his face so his breath was at her ear.

  “Meg,” he whispered. “Meg. Meg. Meg.” She leaned her head back, throat exposed to the sky, and she was falling through space, clutching him to her, clutching this angel to her, and he lifted her to heaven as she fell.

  She woke up at dawn’s first silver light. She was curled around Liam, fastened to him, really, and drooling on his shoulder. Attractive.

  Without moving, she surveyed their two bodies twined together. He looked like a child, so slim, clean, perfect, his skin tight to his bones. This lovely man was twenty-six! She was thirty-one. They weren’t even in the same decade!

  A shame with the same fiery intensity as fear raced through her. Last night she’d acted on impulse, and she acted on impulse again, sliding carefully backward from the bed, terrified that Liam’s eyes would open and he would see her for what sh
e really was in the morning light. The patchwork quilt had fallen to the floor. Picking it up, she wrapped it around her and scurried to the door, leaving the room, closing the door behind her so quietly it made only the smallest click.

  She hurried down the stairs. Did she hear someone talking? Surely not; it wasn’t even six o’clock. Frantically, she wondered where she could hide. Serena was in the living room. Liam’s things were in the den. That would be the first place he would go when he woke. Everyone would go to the kitchen to make coffee.

  Why was she so frightened? It wasn’t logical, she knew that. But she needed a safe place to conceal herself, to give her heart a chance to steady, to let her thoughts lie down in peace. She went out the back door, and around the corner of the house to the driveway. She let out a low, near-hysterical laugh at how she must look, a tousle-headed woman wrapped in a quilt fleeing from a house like a heroine in a gothic romance. There, contemporary and immediate, was her car in the driveway, her old Volvo station wagon. She put her hand on the door, then stopped. Anyone coming out could see inside. In front of it was Jenny’s Jeep, much higher than the Volvo.

  Meg opened the passenger door of the Jeep and climbed into the backseat. She curled up on the seat, wrapping the quilt around her so that only her nose was uncovered. Now she was safe. No one would know she was here, unless Tim Robinson, so incredibly tall, happened to look in, and why would he?

  Curled in a fetal position, protected by the sides of the Jeep, Meg felt safe. Her heart slowed, her breathing evened out, and she began to see the humor in her situation. Really, she was an idiot. Liam was a sweet man, and last night had been so unexpected, and she was so inexperienced, seldom having been with any man, that she mistook what most people would interpret as a casual hooking-up for something profound. She believed they were making love, but of course they were only having sex.

  Yet, it had been wonderful.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the sensations. Soon sleep possessed her.

  “Where’s Meg?” Liam asked.

  The household was awake, gathered around the kitchen table drinking coffee and lazily eating Jenny’s blueberry pancakes. Monday was an official holiday, but cool and foggy, with a dark sky threatening rain.

  “Haven’t seen her,” Serena said. The others murmured agreement.

  Arden cast a sideways glance at Jenny, standing at the stove in shorts and tee shirt. Arden had noticed how Jenny and Liam had gone off together the night before while everyone else watched Armageddon. Meg insisted she wasn’t interested in Liam except as a friend, but as literary Meg would say, Arden thought the lady protested too much. It was obvious to Arden how Meg felt about her colleague; the desire in Meg’s eyes gave her away. It would be cruel of Jenny to go after Liam, even if he was killer handsome and supersmart.

  Arden wondered whether Liam had slept with Jenny last night. It wouldn’t surprise her. Perhaps Meg had found out somehow, going to the bathroom or something, and, unable to face them this morning, had gone off to town for breakfast or down to the beach for a walk. Certainly Liam was twitchy this morning, jumping at the slightest sound, constantly turning to look at the door.

  “C’est dommage,” James cooed in French, pushing back from the table. “But I think Manuel and I must fly home. I’ve checked the forecast and we haven’t a chance of getting more tan today.”

  “But, James,” Jenny said, “I thought you wanted to check out the nude beach.”

  “I do, my sweet! But the temperature’s fallen. No one’s going to want to be nude today.”

  “I’ve got to get back, too,” Serena added, stretching. She was still in her white terry cloth bathrobe.

  “Oh, Serena,” Arden protested. “Not yet.”

  “I’ve got piles of work to do. Since today’s a holiday, I can go into the office and really dig in without anyone bothering me.”

  “You’re a fine lot of friends,” Arden snorted.

  “Liam?” Jenny asked softly. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

  Arden’s eyes flashed between Jenny and Liam like a searchlight.

  Liam hadn’t touched his pancakes. “I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye to Meg.”

  Serena stood up. “Arden? Will you drive me to the airport?”

  James waved his hand. “Arden, my sweet, drive me and Manuel, too, please?”

  Arden hesitated. That would leave Jenny alone with Liam. But how could she refuse? “Of course,” she said.

  “I’ll take a quick shower,” Serena said.

  “We’ll pack,” James said.

  Manuel, who seldom spoke, smiled his sweet, glorious smile and followed James from the room.

  Liam rose. “I guess I’ll walk into town and buy some newspapers. Can I get anything for anyone?”

  “Are you buying the Times?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes. And the Globe.” Liam was already dressed in khakis and a long-sleeved blue cotton button-down shirt. He went to the back door. “If Meg comes back, tell her I’d like to talk with her.”

  “Sure thing,” Jenny said easily.

  So maybe they hadn’t slept together, Arden thought. Still, she hated that she had to drive people to the airport. She felt protective of Meg, although she wasn’t sure why.

  Carrying plates and utensils to the dishwasher, she realized she was probably focusing on Meg to keep from thinking about her own life.

  But Jenny, scrubbing the huge frying pan at the sink, zeroed in on Arden’s unspoken thoughts. “So have you heard from Zoey this morning? Or Palmer? Or Tim?”

  “No.” Arden dropped the knives and forks into the dishwasher rack with a clatter.

  “Well, aren’t you a little bluebird of joy this morning,” Jenny said sarcastically.

  Arden whipped around to glare at Jenny. “Did you sleep with Liam?”

  “What? Shut up. You’re nuts.” Jenny glared at Arden.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Arden pointed out.

  “That question doesn’t deserve a response,” Jenny shot back.

  Arden pounced. “Oh, so you did sleep with him!”

  “What’s wrong with you, Arden? Of course I didn’t! As a matter of fact, during our walk last night, we talked about Meg. Liam’s interested in her. He wants me to talk to her for him.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, … he didn’t actually say. He wants to date her, but she thinks he’s too young for her.”

  Arden leaned against the counter, holding a dish towel in her hand. “Meg’s scared.”

  “Can you blame her?” Jenny asked quietly.

  “Ready to go!” Serena appeared, her short hair glossy from the shower, dressed in black leggings and a black tunic, looking much more city than beach. Her laptop case hung from one shoulder, her briefcase from the other.

  “I’ll go up and sort the men out,” Jenny said. “They’re probably squabbling over how to fold their shirts.” She left the room.

  Serena dropped her cases on the table and crossed to the coffeepot. Pouring herself another cup, which she always drank black and strong, she said, “We haven’t had a chance to really talk, Arden. In twenty words or less, how it’s going for you this summer?”

  Arden thought for a moment. “Well, you met Ariadne Silverstone. She’s agreed to let me—”

  “Oh, stop!” Serena interrupted. “I don’t mean your show. I mean (a) your stepsisters or whatever they are and (b) your sex life.” Before Arden could answer, she continued, “That Tim guy is sublime. I could crawl right up his long, tall body.”

  “Tim is a good-looking guy,” Arden said. “Nice, too. We went sailing once. I don’t know, Serena, the chemistry just isn’t there. I don’t know why.”

  “I know why,” Serena stated in her bossy know-it-all way. “You three women are warped by your father. You don’t trust men.”

  “What a news flash,” Arden said. “I think I’d better sit down.”

  “Smart-ass,” Serena said. “You don’t have to marry the man
. When’s the last time you got laid?”

  Arden ignored her. “As for Jenny and Meg, I think we’re doing all right. We cooperated on this party; we get through the days. Jenny’s helped me make some contacts.”

  “Like Palmer White. If I were you, I wouldn’t let that Zoey snatch him up. He’s a fascinating, powerful man.”

  “True,” Arden agreed.

  James appeared in the doorway. “We’re ready.”

  Serena put her cup down. “My duffel’s in the hall.”

  Jenny looked out the front door. “Meg’s Volvo’s behind my Jeep.”

  “Her keys are on the hook,” Arden said, snatching them up in her hand. “Okay, gang, let’s load up the train.”

  On impulse, Jenny announced, “I’ll ride out with you.”

  Arden drove through town and down Orange Street, which became, after the rotary, a straight shot down Airport Road. James, a chef at a chic Boston restaurant, kept up a camp account of his boss, the waiters, and the sous chef until they arrived at the airport. They pulled luggage from the hatchback, kissed, hugged, promised to meet again soon, and then Arden and Jenny were left alone for the drive back to the house.

  “How did you meet James?” Arden asked as she pulled away from the drop-off space.

  “Here. In the summer. I was infatuated with him when I was seventeen. He hadn’t come out yet, and we had the most romantic summer of my life. Lots of hand-holding and sweet, gentle kisses. I thought he was such a gentleman, so considerate, not rushing me into having sex.” Jenny laughed at her memories. “I was so naïve.”

  “Actually, it sounds like an idyllic summer romance,” Arden said.

  “It was. I hadn’t had sex yet, and I was terrified about it. James was the perfect boyfriend. When he came out in college, I was the first person he told. We’ve been close ever since.”

  “Do you like Manuel?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Manuel doesn’t say much. I think he might be a bit jealous because James and I are such buddies. But Manuel is faithful to James, and makes James happy, and that’s what matters.” She looked over at Arden. “How did you meet Serena?”