The Red Bikini (12 page)

When he flew back to France, he began having nightmares that she was in his grasp, but he couldn’t lift her, which wasn’t the way it had happened, but it kept him awake most nights anyway.
In Portugal, for the Rip Curl Pro, he dreamed she fell out of an airplane and he was supposed to catch her. By the time they’d hit the Billabong Pipe in Hawaii, he began dreaming that her body fell apart in his hands. He was a mess. He began spending much of his time alone in his hotel room with a couple of bottles of scotch, dreading and willing sleep at the same time.

“I’d rather you ask me than read crap online,” he said quietly.

“Mahina’s the company you’ve had your contract with for years?”

“Is that all you’re wondering?”

“Just trying to understand this.”

He tipped his head. “That’s right. I’ve been with Mahina for years.”

“What’s the contract for?”

“I ride for them—which means I wear their gear when I’m competing—wet suits, board shorts—and use their leashes and boards. And I pose for photos, show up at events, sign autographs, that kind of thing.”

“Do you like it?”

Colorful summer plants whisked by his window as they picked up speed. He wasn’t used to anyone asking him whether he liked his job. Most people thought it was a dream job—surfing for a living—but in reality it could feel stifling when you did it for money. Wearing the sunglasses and hoodies and crap and posing for photos could make you feel like a sellout faster than you could blink. But he always felt like an asshole for complaining. He knew he had a lot of people’s dream job.

“Can’t complain,” he said.

“But you’re worried they won’t renew the contract?”

“Right.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

He took a deep breath. “Well, some of the stuff you saw when you Googled me is part of the reason.”

He braced himself for her judgment. It had been nice being the protective arm for a smart, beautiful woman who thought he was “hunky enough, pro surfer enough” to help her somehow with her own problems, but all that was over now.

“So why do you need
me
?” she asked.

He glanced with disbelief between her and the road, then dropped his car visor to ward off the bright sun that came through the windshield, slicing through the dry summer canyon. She was just going to let everything go—whatever she did or didn’t see online—and let it zoom past, just like the golden canyon hills out their windows. The thought buoyed him, but made him feel guilty at the same time. He didn’t feel he deserved her trust. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of trust in a long time.

“I’m on the older end of this sport,” he finally answered. “Companies like Mahina want seventeen- and nineteen-year-olds to sell their gear. I don’t have the jutting hip bones anymore to hang board shorts on.” He tried to smile, but her eyes went wide before they darted away.

He cleared his throat. Damn. He had to keep reminding himself not to talk about body parts, sex, or even sex wax to her. Topics like that made Grace Kelly here look like she was going to combust.

“As nervous as they are about me,” he went on, “they’re even more nervous about the groms coming up. I’m hoping they’ll see me as their better, more mature candidate.”

“You’re mature?”

He snapped his head in her direction.

“I mean . . .” she stammered. “I just mean ‘mature’ in the sense of ‘old.’ You seem so . . .
young
.”

He didn’t answer. Women like Giselle were probably always going to see him as an immature beach bum.

“So I’m the old lady to make you look more mature?” she asked.

That brought a smile to his face, but he kept his eyes averted. “You’re my sophisticated date, to show that I make good decisions. And that I’m popular among the people they care about.”

“And those people would be . . . ?”

“People with money.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see that her face changed then—that probably hadn’t been the best way to phrase things. But keeping this to facts was the best thing for both of them. He had played a role with her, and she was playing a role for him, and it was best they just stick to their scripts. It was better than trying to impress her, or worrying about what she thought of him, or blurting out his whole life to her. And definitely better than obsessing about seeing her naked.

“So what do you need me to do?” she asked.

A stab of guilt went through his chest at the hurt sound in her voice.

“Just be . . .
you
,” he managed to say, shrugging. He couldn’t think of how else to explain it. She was perfect, just the way she was. She was smart, well educated—exactly the kind of woman the board at Mahina loved. The kind of woman Fox wanted him to bring tonight. The kind he could be photographed with.

He leaned forward to find the main canyon road, which would lead to the cliff-top entrance to the gallery. His tires popped over the gravel of the turn, which took them up a winding road through a grove of silvery eucalyptus trees. There was a magical quiet to the eucalyptus canyon, which Giselle seemed to sense. She sat forward, lips parted, gazing toward the top of the hill, where the gallery was lit like a modernist cube, glass walls showcasing the elegance inside.

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

He stole a glance at her. The evening sun dropped in through the windshield and cast her in a ringlet of gold. “Agreed.”

The dirt parking lot was full, and they had to park toward the back with a few other arrivals right behind them. When Fin cut the engine, the quietness of the canyon seeped into the car. He turned toward her, the leather creaking beneath him.

He cleared his throat. He didn’t expect to be nervous about this. “Giselle, could you . . .” He nodded toward her wedding ring. “Could you take that off again?”

She paused for a second, seemingly confused, then followed his line of vision to her hand. “Oh! Of course . . .” She began wrestling with the thing, then tugged it off and threw it in her purse.

But he continued to stare. Now, instead of her ring, she had a nice white tan line—a classic “cheater’s band.”

He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, that’s not going to do a thing for my reputation.”

She followed his gaze and then rubbed her finger, as if shocked the ring of white were there. “I’m sorry, Fin. I must not have put sunscreen on my hands today. The breeze made it seem too cool to tan.”

“It’s all right. Rookie mistake.” He opened his ashtray and started rummaging around. This would make things a lot easier. “Do you have any other ring you can wear?”

She shook her head, still staring at the ghost of her marriage.

He leaned toward his ashtray and found what he was looking for. It was a small woman’s band, with a single turquoise stone, that he’d gotten in Mexico during one of his surfing trips years ago. He had purchased a cheap nickel band for himself that had long since tarnished, buying it off the sidewalk from a woman who was selling jewelry off a Navajo blanket with her four children, who all sat there disheveled and hungry. Fin had given her the five dollars she’d asked, then threw in his last hundred when he saw her limp forward on her badly burned legs. She’d thrown her arm around his waist and put this skinnier nickel ring in the bag as well.

He found it now, pulling it out among the quarters, and held it in front of Giselle.

He had intended to keep this light, keep it playful. He had intended to give it to her and say, “Hey, will you marry me?” and they’d both laugh about it as they climbed out of the car and she put it on for this part of the charade.

But a wave of embarrassment now swept over him. He stared at it between his fingers and tried to think of what to say.

“Are we supposed to be married?” she finally asked, saving him the humiliation.

“Engaged. I won’t see most of these people again—they’re almost all from corporate. My boss, Fox, just thought it might help my case with Mahina and thought it would be . . .” He tried to think of what he meant to say, but words were eluding him.

He waited for her to respond as the car grew warmer, holding his breath while she turned the ring over and over.

“I know it’s not much,” he said.

He almost bit off his tongue. Damn, he was an idiot.

The ring was large for her finger, and the turquoise weighed it down so it slipped toward her palm, but it would do. And it covered enough of that damned white band of skin.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Fin began breathing again.

“But I need to know what you’re doing with a woman’s ring in your ashtray. I’m not wearing someone else’s ring, am I?”

“God, no.”

Her expression remained dubious. “Fin?”

“
No
. I got it in Mexico a long time ago.” He told her the whole story, about the woman with the burned legs, and even dug out the man’s ring from the ashtray to show her the original purchase. But he left out the part about the hundred bucks, not wanting to seem like a complete sap, just saying he paid a little extra.

Giselle nodded, seemingly satisfied, then grabbed the door handle.

“Uh . . . there’s one more thing,” he said.

“There’s more?”

“One more detail. It’s a bit crazy.”

“Crazier than the fact that we’re supposed to be engaged?”

“You’re a baker.”

“What?”

“A famous one.”

“A famous baker?”

“You write cookbooks and you sell cookies all over the world. You’re like Mrs. Fields, only newer and hipper.”

Her eyebrows knit. “Because . . .”

“Fox—for some godforsaken reason—blurted out at the last contract negotiation that I was ‘settling down’ with the next Mrs. Fields. When you came in with those cookies at Rabbit’s, I just thought . . .”

Her face fell. She turned back toward the handle as if she couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

“Wait, Giselle.” Did he say something wrong? Was it just too much? “If you don’t want to go through with this, I understand.”

She settled back down and stared into her lap. The sadness in her face, the slump of her shoulders, made his chest clench. . . . He was an asshole. She was trying to be someone else, and he was forcing her back into a role she probably didn’t want to play anymore. He stared out the window and tried to figure out how to fix this.

“Is Fox the cool vice president?” she asked.

He paused.
Was she considering this?
“Yes.”

“I’m not doing some kind of cooking demo, am I?” She avoided his eyes, but didn’t look quite as horrified.

“No, nothing like that. But someone might ask what you do.”

“All right, then,” she said, opening the door. “Let’s go. While we’re walking, you can tell me the rest of our story.”

He was so relieved that the slump to her shoulders was gone, so grateful she was agreeing, and so amazed that a woman like this would help him, he simply blew out a breath and followed her through the parking lot.

"S
o how long have we been dating?” Giselle said, slipping her fingertips into the crook of Fin’s arm.

Her disappointment continued to fall around her at each crunch of gravel beneath her heels, but she smoothed her sensible dress and glanced at him for an answer.

“A couple of months?” he said.

She nodded and slipped her hand farther into the fabric. This was the fourth or fifth time she’d held his arm already, despite having known him less than thirty-six hours. Yet it felt strangely comfortable. And it kept sending a shiver through her as she felt the ball of his biceps beneath the suit fabric.

His body was rigid as they made their way through the parking lot. It probably took a lot out of him to give her that ring—to have any kind of hint at having a fiancée. He kept averting his eyes. Normally, she would have been irritated that he hadn’t told her all of it from the beginning, but she figured she’d put him through some hoops, too. They were both just doing their best, grasping at something in each of their lives that was slipping away, each with what reserve they had left.

“Do I own a local business or national?”

“Local, but you’re thinking about expanding; you just moved here.”

“From where?”

“Wherever you want.” He glanced down at her. “Want to say Indiana? Make things easier?”

“Perfect.”

She watched her footsteps to make sure she didn’t slip, and he slowed so she could maneuver the steps in her high heels. The evening’s honey-colored light made the pebbles around the shrubbery sparkle like metal.

“How did we meet?”

“Through Rabbit?”

She nodded.

“You were here in California, scouting a new location, and he invited you to a party I was having.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. The bandage on his nose and the start of the black eye, along with the tuxedo, made him seem like a tough, young James Bond.

“What about Coco?” she whispered.

“Yes, I’m marrying into a family.”

Another shiver shot straight to her fingertips at the ease with which he said that, right before he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket.
Silly,
she reprimanded herself.
Get ahold of yourself
. He was spinning this story as he thought of it, not having romantic visions. He only picked her because of her cookies.

She tightened her grip as they crested the top. The sounds of an orchestra billowed across the courtyard. Strands of tiny white lights swung against the surrounding trees, sparkling against the light blue sky and lending the terrace a theatrical feel. Clusters of people milled on the concrete, all in tuxedos or long gowns of silky fabric. An ocean breeze swept along her ankles.

Giselle smoothed her dress against her thigh. Thank goodness she’d changed out of the fiery red number. Fin was right—it wouldn’t have fit in at all.

“Fast engagement. When are we supposed to be getting married?” she whispered.

“Let’s keep that part vague.”

“Spoken like a man.”

Fin chuckled. His shoulders relaxed, and her own hand softened, too.

“Finnegan Hensen,”
came a booming voice from their right.

“Mr. Randolph.” Fin held out his hand to a balloon-shaped man with clusters of white hair around his ears.

“What the hell happened to your face, son? Don’t tell me you got clocked by a board?” Mr. Randolph turned to a colleague beside him and pointed at Fin. “This is our wet-suit model. We have to protect this investment.” He laughed and gave Fin a fatherly hug. “We’re going to have to move you to Mahina flip-flops if you don’t watch that face of yours.”

“Mr. Randolph, I’d like you to meet Giselle . . . McCabe.” Fin’s hesitation over her name was barely noticeable, but Giselle almost laughed. He didn’t even know her last name. He’d simply attached the name he knew as Lia’s. She bit back her amusement, but it was starting to mingle with worry.

“Lovely meeting you,” she said.

Mr. Randolph pumped her hand with an enthusiasm that didn’t seem warranted, then refused to let go as he turned to wave down a companion. “Let me introduce you to . . .” He waved again. A slender, silver-haired woman in an eggplant-colored suit caught his greeting and approached. “Donna! I want you to meet someone.”

Giselle’s eyes met Fin’s.
Donna?
The corner of Fin’s mouth quirked up as he focused on his shoes.

“Donna, this is Fin’s friend, Giselle McCabe. Giselle, meet my wife, Donna.”

Another silvery couple came up behind them, the man clapping Fin on the back and asking about his face. The evening breezes ruffled through the trees, and sent the lights dancing to the orchestra. A distant scent of night jasmine drifted up around them. Giselle kept shaking hands with new couples from the board of directors—all with white or silvery hair—until one of the women in a wildly patterned scarf noticed her ring.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, taking Giselle’s hand and holding it up. “Tom, look.” She gazed into Giselle’s eyes with interest. “Is this what I think it is?”

Giselle swallowed. She glanced at Fin while words and lies eluded her.

Fin met Giselle’s gaze and smiled grimly, as if this were all a runaway train he couldn’t stop. His face grew ruddy.

“When did you get
engaged
?” the woman asked Fin.

He cleared his throat. “A little while ago.”

“Oh! How romantic!” Another older woman grasped Giselle’s hand and turned toward Fin. “I’m so happy for you. It seems like we just met—” She moved her hand as if to call a name out of her memory, but then flushed in embarrassment. “Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re so happy for you, Fin. We’ve been hoping you would settle down soon. You two make a dashing couple.”

“Thanks.” Fin avoided Giselle’s eyes while the orchestra grew louder. A metallic sound clanged behind them, and they all turned to see the huge steel doors of the gallery swinging open.

“Let’s go inside,” he said in a rush, resting his fingertips at the small of her back.

Fin pressed her forward, slipping his fingers just low enough to send goose bumps down her back. She couldn’t remember ever having a man touch her there, not even her ex, who didn’t like public displays of affection. Fin glanced down at her right then, his eyes dark.

“Thank you,” he said into her ear.

The low whisper of his voice sent a chill across her neckline. She wanted to meet his eyes, decipher that darkness, but a balding man in a dapper tuxedo whirled toward them as they crowded through the doors and shouted to Giselle to ask whether she liked art.

“I do,” she admitted, tearing her eyes away from Fin. “I always like learning more about it.” She enunciated everything clearly, since the man’s decibel level hinted that he was hard of hearing.

“What kind of art do you like?” the balding gentleman continued.

Giselle tried to concentrate, ignoring Fin’s fingertips at the top of her panty line. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered whether his eyes went navy because he was uncomfortable, or because he was grateful, or for some other reason she had yet to learn. She had the vague notion he might look that way in bed, and a runaway fantasy flitted through her head and made her drop her gaze before anyone could see her blush.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met an Impressionist painting I didn’t like,” she said.

The man nodded with enthusiasm. “Are you familiar with California Impressionists?”

Another gentleman pulled Fin away as soon as they shuffled into the glass-walled lobby, wrapping an arm over his shoulders in a fatherly gesture, and Fin broke away, leaving a coolness at the curve of her spine.

“I’m from Indiana,” she enunciated to the balding man, “so if there are California Impressionist paintings here, that would be a real treat.”

“
Oh
, you’re in for a delight,” he shouted. “There are amazing California Impressionists on the second floor. Let me take you.”

As Giselle followed him toward a circular marble staircase, she glanced back at Fin, who had kept her in his radar as soon as they separated. He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Another well-dressed gentleman—this one a bit younger than the other board members—approached Fin from behind like a shark and clapped him on the back.

“Hey, Fox,” she heard Fin say as he turned away.

Giselle left Fin surrounded by several other tuxedoed men, who began laughing boisterously. She followed the balding man, who reminded her a bit of a condor and whose name turned out to be Turner, to see the California Impressionists.

She’d make her own impression.

For Fin.

 • • • 

Fin watched Giselle glide up the staircase with Mr. Turner and felt a strange rush of relief and gratitude, combined with a terrible discomfort, all at once. An emotional cocktail. He turned back to Mahina’s VP and did his best to smile.

“Fuck!” Fox frowned. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Would you believe I got hit by a door?”

“Would
you
?”

Fin smirked. He liked Fox. He was the contract VP, so Fin worked with him most. They’d been working together since Fin was about twenty-one—the year Fox started at Mahina. Fox himself was probably only twenty-nine at the time, and Fin was his first contract. They’d hit it off from the start, and—even though they had to maintain a professional relationship in contract negotiations—in their off-hours, Fox would invite himself surfing with Fin, or they’d knock back a couple of Coronas at the beach bars on the weekend. Fox had always seen something in Fin that went well beyond what he could do in the water. And Fin had been eternally grateful.

Now, however, he stared at Fin in disbelief. “What the hell is
wrong
with you?”

“Honestly. It was a door.”

Fox shook his head. “I’ll tell people you got hit by a board.”

“That’s what Randolph concocted anyway.”

“You’re a fucker. Are you
trying
to make my job hard?”

The main-level exhibit was modern art, and the two of them wandered through the sculptures, their dress shoes shuffling along the travertine. The sky was turning a brighter orange behind the glass walls, providing a quiet illumination for the shining materials in the artwork.

“Good job on the date, though. She’s beautiful,” Fox said.

Fin nodded once, not wanting to say any more. He didn’t want to perpetuate this lie. But Fox said he knew what he was doing. He wanted Fin to get the contract with Mahina—more than he wanted Caleb to get it, or any of the other new “pissers,” as Fox called them. But Mr. Makua, the company owner, had issues with Fin’s behavior over the past few months. Mr. M had worried that Fin was too depressed to compete, and that he’d never rally back. But Fox had been willing to bet otherwise. And Fin was grateful for that.

They stopped in front of a red-copper twisted structure, raised on a pedestal in the middle of the floor, illuminated from its base.

“I don’t understand this stuff,” said Fox, shrugging.

“I don’t think it’s part of our job description.”

“Thank God.” Fox waved down the waiter with the wine tray and snagged two off the edge.

They moved toward another piece made out of painted license plates.

“Make sure to have your picture taken with her, okay?”

Fin nodded.

“And make sure they get your left side.”

Fin nodded again. But this felt wrong. He felt like a sellout. He felt like a liar for maneuvering photos, faking his acceptance. And he felt bad, all of a sudden, for using Giselle.

“You’re still heading out to South Africa for the Ballito competition?” Fox asked.

Fin managed to get another sip of chardonnay around the sudden tumbleweed in his throat. “Yep.”

“Do you think you’ll do well?” Fox asked.

Fin studied another piece of sculpture that resembled a female form. He
should
. He’d won it before. But, given his strange year of losses after Jennifer, he really wasn’t sure.

“I should do all right.”

“Mr. Makua might delay your contract until you compete there. And win.”

Fin stared at him.

“I know. It sucks. You’ll have to get back on the tour to get the contract, I’m thinking. You’ll have to win Ballito, and probably the U.S. Open, too. Sorry, Fin. It’s the best I could do.”

Fuck
. Fin shook his head. He didn’t know whether he could win both of those.

“And, you know, you’ll have to be on good behavior,” Fox said, low. “How’s the drinking?”

“It’s . . . under control.”

The phrase “your contract” was still hanging there like a carrot—at least he thought he’d heard it. But he switched his thinking to follow Fox’s train of thought.

“We just need to know you’re stable, Fin. We don’t need to be employing another Caleb Anderson. His year in jail killed us.”

“I understand.”

“No more benders, wild parties in Bali . . .”

“No.”

“No arrests, no fights . . .”

“No.”

“No more fucking
black eyes . . .”

“Got it.”

They shuffled into the next gallery, where a small crowd had gathered. They stood behind the others, eyeing the splotchy paintings on the walls.

Fox regarded him with sympathy. “Look,” he said, his voice dropping. “I know you’re not the asshole the press is making you out to be, but they’re ripping you up, man.”

Fin nodded.

“You being a loner all these years—it’s not doing you a bit of good. Get out there if you can, but doing . . . you know . . .
good
things. Show off your Surfrider Foundation work, or talk about your Make-A-Wish stuff. Talk about how you’re financing that kid’s surf school. . . . Or be seen with people like her.” He nodded back in the direction of the staircase again.

“Her name’s Giselle.” A wave of irritation rode through Fin.

Fox shot him a sideways glance.

Fin didn’t do the environmental work or the Make-A-Wish work to show it off; he did it because he wanted to. And having to posture for the public—when all he wanted to be judged on was
how he surfed—
was making his skin crawl.