The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (12 page)

Allie, by this time, had come to adore Paul Bannerman. What more could Susan want, she asked. He was
bright, charming, successful, and one of those men who
seemed to genuinely like women. Susan in particular.
He was perfect for her. On Thanksgiving
D
ay, she said
as much every time Susan passed through her kitchen.

Perfect, thought Susan. If not, he was awfully close.
What more
could
a woman want? A flaw, maybe. An
ordinary human failing. Heck, Paul didn't even snore.
He didn't have any family skeletons because he appar
ently didn't have any family. His father had died when
he was quite young, his mother some years later. Each
was an only child. So was he. He grew up in California.
She saw a UCLA mug on his desk, filled with pencils. No
yearbook, though. She'd looked for one among his
books, hoping to see what it said about him, who his
friends were, what his interests were. Anything.

After college, three years in the Army. Made cap
tain. Stationed in Europe. No Vietnam. Got a master's in
international marketing while in the Service. Joined a
tour operator afterward, did that for about ten years
before opening up his own tour operation and finally a travel agency. Why Westport? A good travel market.
And a good local agency was for sale. Not much more to
tell, he said. Not especially interesting, he said.

“Ever done drugs?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Even gotten drunk?”

“In school a few times. Sure.”

“Probably never been arrested, right?”

“Right.”

“Ever been in a fistfight?”

“No, but I've written a few strong letters in my
time.”

“I'm serious.”

“Okay. Once, Mary Lou Brickman took my skate
key, and when she wouldn't give it back, I punched her
in the stomach.”

“No, Paul, I'm serious.”

“Susan . . .“
he asked gently, patiently, “what is it
you want to hear?”

“I'm not sure. What would you do if someone in
sulted you . . . some guy in a bar, for example.”

“I'd walk away.”

“What if he insulted me?”

“We'd both walk away.”

They'd had two or three exchanges like that. And
they all went about that way. Paul would start by being
flip, trying to keep it light, she'd press him, and he'd
either change the subject or his voice would take on a sort of soft, low chill and she'd get mad at herself for
being a nag. And for what? What did she really want to
know? That he was a
real man? Susan never doubted
that. She was sure in her own mind that if Paul was ever
forced to protect himself, or her, he'd do just fine. But
she was also sure that he'd go to almost any length to avoid a confrontation. Which might
explain why he'd
never been married.

Wait a minute. What is this? Something good had
happened to you so there has to be something bad about
it? The guy's terrific. And this is Thanksgiving, right? Count your blessings.

As Christmas approached, Susan took it for granted that Paul would share it with her in the city. Her father,
no excuses this time, would come in from Queens on
Christmas Eve. It was time he met Paul, she decided,
and time for him to know that Paul was someone special
in her life. And the prospect of seeing how they'd size
each other up was getting more interesting than ever.

The three of them could take a long walk along Fifth
Avenue, looking at the decorations and the department store windows. Afterward, she'd fix a champagne sup
per and drag them both to midnight Mass at St. Patrick's
Cathedral. On Christmas morning they'd exchange
gifts, then Paul and her father could spend the rest of the day watching football and getting acquainted. Her
father would leave at about five o'clock because her
mother would be coming in from New Jersey for Christ
mas dinner and there was still too much polite tension
between her parents.

But this time it was Paul who couldn't make it. He was sick about it, he told her, but he had business in
Florida that would keep him away for the holidays. He
had booked a large group onto a Christmas cruise and
he was expected to go with them as tour guide and host.
Speaking of Christmas, however, he might have an
early present for her. If he were to give her a first-class
ticket to the Bahamas, how would she feel about joining
him there for New Year's? There was a place just off Eleuthera called the Windermere Island Club. Very ex
clusive, very quiet, very British. Not to try to turn her head, but various members of the royal family owned villas on the club grounds. No telephones or TV, five
miles of perfect beach, lots of romantic little coves. The
offer, however, would be withdrawn at once if she said
Oh, wo
w
.

Her disappointment at not sharing Christmas with
him faded quickly amid visions of moonlit strolls along a
tropical beach. Susan, after a five-second stammer,
managed a simple, explosive
yes.

The Windermere Island Club turned out to be one
of those insular anachronisms the British had been es
tablishing since their early years as a colonial power.
Once the earliest visitors were satisfied that the trade or
plunder potential of a given place could not be ex
hausted in less than a year, the British would set about
choosing a likely spot for a club and shooing away any
local who happened to live there.

Since a British club was by definition a retreat, it
contained very little that was
indigenous to the
sur
rounding area. Native color, to say nothing of colored
natives, was specifically excluded. Where possible, a
club's ambience and architecture would be distinctly
British. If that were not possible due to a lack of suitable
building materials, the design of the club would be bor
rowed from some other colonial post of fond memory.
The Windermere Island Club, from the look of it,
seemed to have gotten its inspiration in the British oc
cupation of the Massachusetts seacoast. The clubhouse
and its outbuildings had a weathered barn look more
reminiscent of Cape Cod than of the tropics.

Paul
met
her
at
Nassau's
International
Airport.
He
waited,
already
tanned
 
and
grinning
happily,
as
she
cleared
Customs.
Taking
her
bag,
hugging
her,
excited
as
a
schoolboy,
he
led
her
through
another
gate
where
a
Cessna
air
taxi
waited
to
fly
them
to
Rock
Sound
Airport
on
Eleuthera,
less
than
thirty
minutes
away.
He
insisted
tha
t
she
sit
with
the
pilot
whil
e
he
sat
behind her
pro
viding
a
running
commentary
on
all
sh
e
saw.
They
flew
over waters
 
of
such
startling
clarity
that
it
seemed
they
were
passing
over
desert
dunes.
The
only
undersea
veg
etation came
in
curious
round
clusters
that
looked
like
scattered
green
oases.
Deeper
waters
ranged
in
color
from
aquamarine
to
turquoise,
and
as
the
plane
de
scended,
she
could
make
out
schools
of
parrot
fish
wind
ing
through
the
coral.
This
was
a
new
Paul.
Excited,
nervous,
at
least
ten
years
y
ounger.
The
o
ld
Paul,
Mr.
Cool,
seemed to
have  been
washed
away
by
the
gentle
surf
b
eneath them.