Never Too Late (13 page)

While waiting
for Jerry to come for her, Andrea wiggled into the batik swim suit—a one-piece
made from a stretchy material—and tugged it up her body. Wide straps held the
front modestly high. Still, the suit clung to her like a batik tattoo. She
looked at her legs, long and slender and firm, thanks to liposuction. She
hadn't intended to have it done when she called to inquire about it, but after
four months of working out at the fitness center in Myrtle Beach, and seeing
women in their prime, sleek and firm and flat-bellied, she found herself making
an appointment. And while Jerry was away with his crew cleaning up an oil
slick, she had it done. She was pleased that her belly was reasonably flat,
thanks to a daily regimen of sit-ups, and that the rest of her wasn't too bad
for a woman her age. Certainly better than most of her friends. She inhaled and
turned sideways to the mirror, satisfied that what she had was adequate without
the help of silicone.

When Jerry
arrived, he knocked, which surprised Andrea. After twenty-five years she'd
expected him to walk in. He stood on the porch in his batik swim suit, his
shirt, which was open down the front, hugging his broad shoulders, and snorkel
tubes, face masks and long red swim fins in his hands. She noted that his swim
suit was also made from the same stretchy material as hers, and she could not
keep from admiring Jerry's flat belly and narrow hips. She shifted her focus to
his waxed chest. It bothered her that the matt of hair was gone, and with it,
her snuggly huggy bear, as she'd called him...

"It's
growing out." Jerry grumbled. His gaze wandered down the length of her,
making her flesh tingle with his close perusal.

"The
suit's fine," she said, trying not to react to his visual inspection. But
she couldn't stop her face from flushing. Nor could she stem the desire
building inside with his close scrutiny.

Then his face
hardened. "Let's get going," he said in a curt tone. "The best
time for snorkeling's just before the tide turns, which is about now." He
turned and headed for the beach.

Andrea walked
beside him. "We don't have to do this," she said. "You seem
irritated."

"Yeah,
well, it's been a long dry spell," Jerry snapped. "It makes a man
irritable."

Andrea knew at
once that, for whatever reason, Val had not had her way with Jerry. Maybe he'd
had another failure. Maybe it was like he
said,
he
wasn't interested in a woman half his age. But the thought that he hadn't been
with another woman pleased her, even though it didn't change anything.
"Maybe snorkeling will take your mind off... well...
it
," she said.

"The only
thing that'll take my mind off it would be a shark coming along and taking
it
with him," he groused. He walked
toward a drift log in an alcove off the beach and tossed the snorkeling
equipment on the sand. "The man at the rental shop said afternoon was a
good time to see stingray," he commented. "They'll be on the sandy
bottoms in the channels between coral formations."

Andrea reached
for a snorkeling mask, then sat on the drift log and positioned the mask over
her eyes. "You realize it's been years since I've snorkeled," she
said, peering at Jerry through the wide, round glass.

"It'll
come back," Jerry replied. He crouched in front of her and placed his
hands around the mask, and said, "Don't press it hard against your face.
There should be no gaps between the skirt and your skin." He adjusted it
slightly. "Now, inhale. If the mask stays on, it's the right fit."

Andrea filled
her lungs with air. "It's okay," she said, though she was finding it
difficult to breath with Jerry so close. She also noticed Jerry's well-muscled
chest was rising and falling. Definitely the chest of a man who'd been working
out. For how long, she didn't know, because she hadn't noticed it before the
cruise, though there had been little chance. What sex they'd had in the past
two years had been regimental.

Jerry reached
for a fin. "I got the ones that cover the foot instead of open-back
fins," he said, his eyes on her leg. "Give me your foot."

Andrea
stretched out her leg, and Jerry wrapped his palm around her ankle and slipped
the fin onto her foot. "It's supposed to fit comfortably. Not too tight
and not too loose." His palm remained on her ankle for a moment before he
removed it and closed it around the other ankle to slip on the other fin.
Andrea knew there was no logical reason for Jerry to be putting her swim fins
on her feet, or to be holding her ankle, but she didn't stop him because she
wanted him to do what he was doing, and more, which was both confusing and
disconcerting.

Jerry's thumb
glided over her ankle bone and his palm moved up her calf as he said, in a slow,
contemplative voice, "The man said if you snorkel over a small hole that
seems to have a lot of empty shells around it, look in the hole for an
octopus." He stared at her leg for a few moments, then removed his hand
and stood.

Andrea looked
up at him, and for the first time in months, perhaps years, the masculine bulge
straining at Jerry's swim suit excited her. She thought of what lay beneath
that busy batik pattern—his ten-gallon testicles and pile-driver penis, she'd
kidded him so long ago. Almost too long ago to remember. It had been eons since
they'd bantered with playful sex talk, since they'd lost all the fun of
lovemaking. It had been eons since she'd wanted Jerry.

She eyed the
little alcove surrounding them...

…a place for lovers...

But nothing had
changed. Once back in Myrtle Beach they'd fall into their old pattern of
sniping at each other. And the TV would blare, and she'd want to throw the
thing out the window, and Jerry would resent her for going to her writing
tower, and in the unspoken words that never surfaced would be Scott's death,
always hovering over them, as if Scott were pointing a finger at them, accusing
them for giving him a car he couldn't resist racing, and letting him go to a
party where Scott knew there'd be drinking...

But neither the
TV, nor the writing tower, nor Scott's ghost were there right now. It was only
the sand, and the sea, and the surf, and her and Jerry...

Surely for one
afternoon in the Bahamas, they could put things to rest... Put Scott to rest…

Jerry shrugged
out of his shirt and tossed it across a drift log. Positioning the mask and
snorkel over his face, he said, while looking down at her, "Before you
dive, hold your nose and blow in order to equalize your ears. Are you
ready?"

"I
guess," Andrea said. She stood up on the fins. For a few moments Jerry
looked her over, but his eyes were not on the snorkeling equipment, and where
his gaze was focused intensified her desire for him. She hated what was
happening. She hated that Jerry seemed angry when he looked at her. That wasn't
the way it had been. Always, in years past, he looked at her with appreciation.
And the expression on his face had been one of pure pleasure...

Jerry turned
and started toward the water, and Andrea clip-clopped across the sandy beach a
few steps behind him, eyes focused on his broad shoulders, and muscular back,
and trim, firm butt—a body still lean and sinewy, still making her feel things
even after all that had come between them. But soon the turquoise water lapping
against the bright pink sand beckoned. In one long lunge Jerry hurled himself
into the water and floated face down, his brawny back glistening a golden
bronze beneath the afternoon sun, like a giant fish that had come up from the
depths. Andrea too immersed herself in the water, face down, and slowly kicked
her legs.

The water was
warm, the visibility amazing, like swimming in an exploding prism of color.
Kelp swaying, jellyfish propelling themselves by, sea turtles paddling around.
Words failed to describe the exquisiteness, the allure of the exotic marine
life. She watched an eagle ray cruise by, and saw an upside-down jelly fish.
She was peering inside a pipe at a spider crab when Jerry took her arm and
pulled her toward a coral reef where starfish and sea urchins and sea cucumbers
swayed with the current. He pointed to a flounder lying flat in the sand, then
picked up a sea star and handed it to her. She took it and it stiffened into a
tight outer shell. She looked at Jerry and smiled, but he didn't smile back.

...Yeah, well, it's been a long dry spell...

Too true.

She lost track
of how long they were floating in the surf, but by the time they left the water
and returned to the drift log, the sun had moved low in the sky. Andrea swept
off her mask and snorkel and pulled off her fins. But while she stood on the
deserted beach inside the private alcove protected by mangroves and brush, while
staring at the pink iridescent shells sticking up out of the sand, Jerry came
up behind her, kissed the curve of her neck, slipped the straps of her swim
suit off her shoulders, and dragged the suit down the length of her body. She
stepped out of it and stood nude, her back still to him, waiting. She heard a
swish as he removed his swim suit, then his arms came around her from behind,
and his hands captured and fondled what had been his for twenty-five years. He
wasn't asking, or trying to pleasure her. He was taking what he wanted. And
when she felt the hardness of him pressing boldly against her from behind, she
turned in his arms and took from him what she wanted. Giving him pleasure was
not her objective. This was about self-gratification, taking what was legally
theirs as husband and wife. Taking it without thought of giving in return.

His mouth
captured hers, demanding she open. Her tongue searched deeper, insisting he
meet her thrusts. And as they fell to the sand, and the sun beat down on them,
and the surf of the incoming tide washed over their naked bodies, the union was
turbulent and self-absorbed, the culmination as violent and unrelenting as the
waves breaking over them. And when it was over, they stepped away from each
other and rinsed themselves in the sea, slipped into their swim suits like
strangers on the beach, and went to their separate bungalows, as if nothing had
happened.

The subject of
dinner hadn't come up and Andrea was glad. After what happened on the beach she
couldn't face Jerry, even if it was across the span of a dining room. And the
irony of it was, after their heated coming together she felt more like a
stranger to Jerry than a wife. There had been no love play, no laughing or
horsing around. No affection. What happened had been nothing more than two
people, starved for sex, taking from each other what they wanted then going
their separate
ways.
And she felt more unfulfilled
than ever before.

Deciding to
order room service, and finding her stomach still unsettled from the ordeal the
night before, she opted for a light dinner—chicken soup, a dinner roll, and
tea. But after she'd finished and the dinner cart had been taken away, she took
a long hot shower, wanting to wash away all traces of their lovemaking away,
knowing the evidence of it was still deep inside her. Just as Jerry was. Maybe
not inside her physically, as he'd been on the beach, but he was still there
emotionally, because even after their fiery, detached, coming together, she
wanted him again. But now, she wanted what they'd had before.

She had just
slipped into a pair of batik pants and a shirt when she heard a loud, impatient
rapping on the door. Figuring it was Jerry, still bad-tempered because what
happened on the beach had been as unsatisfying for him as it was for her, she
swept the door open. And froze...

"What in
hell is going on here?"
Andrea's father asked, eyes
fixed on her.

Andrea held her
father's angry gaze, mortified that he and her mother were there, certain
they'd learned
something
, fearing
what it might be. Flying off on their private jet meant nothing. Landing on
Andros Island meant the shit was about to hit the fan. "It's good to see
you too, Daddy," she said. "If I knew you and Mother were coming, I'd
have baked a cake. Maybe next time you'll wire first and I will."

"Don't get
testy with me," her father said, sweeping past her. "You have some
explaining to do." He turned and waited for her response.

"I have no
idea what you're talking about," Andrea said.

"The hell you don't!"
he
bellowed. "Why do you think we're here?"

Andrea
shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe to piss me off. You're good at doing
that."

"Andrea!"
her mother
interjected. Walking up to Andrea, she said in a conciliatory tone, "Your
father and I are here because we were worried sick about you."

Andrea ignored
her mother's look of appeasement intended to curb a confrontation that was
already in motion. "I'm almost forty-five years old, Mother," she
said, her voice rising with her agitation. "I no longer need a staff of
nannies looking after me,
or my parents
following me around, breathing down my back and spying on me!
"

"Calm
down, honey," Barbara Ellison said. "We're not following you around
and spying on you. We're here because when the ship left the island last night,
and you and Jerry weren't on it, but all of your clothes were, we got
alarmed."

"That
sounds like spying to me," Andrea said. "And I'm pretty miffed that
you and Daddy continue to run my life, no matter how many years I've been on my
own, or how many miles away from you I am.
Even
when I'm on an Island in the Bahamas!"

"Will you
please stop raising your voice, Andrea," her mother said. "And we are
not trying to run your life. We're concerned about you because you didn't
return to the ship with the other passengers last night."

"Which you
wouldn't have known about unless you were spying on me," Andrea pointed
out, wondering what else they might have learned about the infamous anniversary
cruise. A lot of tongues must be wagging aboard ship if the whereabouts of
Jerry and Andrea Porter were being bantered about. Or would that be the
whereabouts of Valerie William's sugar daddy and Alessandro Cavallaro's lover?