35
The days leading up to Friday are spent in juxtaposition. In Geneva I spend long days in the office reviewing our second-quarter numbers, forecasting sales in our new push into emerging markets, and monitoring the progress of production on our new watch. Mila and I picnic on the lake shore, and Daniel joins us on a bike ride in the country. The days are long, summer-rich, with the sun hanging in the sky until late, urging me to stay awake and enjoy the light a little longer.
But I want to sleep. As soon as Mila is tucked into bed I rush to my bedroom, pull the watch from its box, and drop into bed. And into sleep.
On the island the days are filled with cleanup. The howling wind and the driving rain slowly drizzled to a stop until light peeked through the hurricane shutters and singing birds let us know it was safe to venture outside.
When I first stepped out of Aaron’s childhood home I didn’t know where I’d be. It turned out the house was on the far side of Charlestown, far enough from shore, elevated enough, that no waves or storm surge would reach it. Everyone on island had decamped from the shore, vacated low-lying flood-prone areas, and moved inland to stay with relatives or friends.
I was stunned at the aftermath. There was plenty of damage for something Aaron called “just a little storm.” The first day I blinked into the bright light. The sun, since it had been covered by heavy, violent storm clouds for two days, seemed to shine with renewed vigor. It hit every flooded street, every puddle, every water-slicked roof, and reflected with bright white light.
There was plenty of flooding. All the sandy gravel road was washed out and a little river of brown water rushed down the “runway” to the sea. All the low-lying grassy gardens were filled with wind-blown green pools. The storm had uprooted mango trees, flattened banana groves, and ripped metal gutters and roof shingles from homes and then sprinkled them on the muddy ground. The soil squelched under my feet, cool water seeped into my shoes, and the scent of mangrove and wet, loamy tropical soil hung heavy in the air.
The wind was still brisk although not violent. It tugged at my hair and whipped my dress against my legs. The waves of the sea crashed taller than a person, roaring over the beach and then receding to be swallowed by deeper waters. Aaron claimed the sea would calm in a day or two, and it did.
In the days after, the island put itself back to rights. The island birds, right away, started singing again, chasing bugs and hopping between trees. Even the chickens emerged from wherever they’d weathered the storm. They pranced around, pecking at the muddy soil, unruffled by the wind and rain.
So for days we worked together. For one single moment Aaron was surprised when I offered to help climb up on Essie’s roof to nail down new shingles. But after that he didn’t blink when I helped him fix Maranda’s gutter and then dry out Sue’s, which had six inches of standing water in the kitchen.
We worked as a team, Aaron and I, while Junie stayed with Amy and Sean at the cottage. As the crisp breeze chased away the last of the storm clouds and the sun dried out the flooded streets and gardens, Aaron and I worked under the shining sun.
He told me stories when I asked, about what swim he liked best—South Eleuthera to Nassau, Bahamas—about how he could swim for forty hours—he enters a place in himself where there’s only focus, him and the water; he envisions it ahead of time, he’s already swam it, he’s already seen it happen in his mind, and then he swims—about how he’d swim again—with me there—about his favorite book— “Robinson Crusoe,” (where did I think Amy got the tattered, dog-eared copy?)—about his favorite food—Essie’s banana bread—about his favorite place—the cove on the northside of the island. Would he take me there? Yes, he would.
While we put the island back together we drew closer and closer, until on Thursday, when I was mud-covered and messy from hauling downed banana trees from the back garden, Aaron put his hand to my wrist, tugged me to him, and held my face as he kissed me.
The electricity had been crackling between us for days. So much so that even if I closed my eyes I’d still be able to point to the exact spot Aaron stood. I was aware of his every movement, his every breath, even the quiet scrape of his cotton shirt over his skin.
So after days of talking and working and not ever touching or kissing, I wasn’t surprised when Aaron tugged me against him and said, “Fi.”
My pants were mud-slicked and wet. My white T-shirt was muddy and molded over my breasts. My cheeks were red and my face was sweat-slicked. Aaron took one look at me, and the heat that had been growing between us like the heat building in the noonday sun exploded. I dropped the banana leaves. The branches rushed to the grass and the sweet fragrance of leaves and fruit fanned around us.
He didn’t wait for me to say yes. Instead he took my mouth as if he’d been starved for days and I was the answer to his prayers. His calloused fingers stroked the sweat and mud on my face. I gripped his T-shirt, working my hands over the planes of his chest and the hard width of his shoulders. He dragged his mouth over mine, a prayer on his lips.
“Yes,” I whispered.
And then his hands were on my shirt, tugging the mud-soaked fabric free. His hands went to my abdomen, spanned my hips, dragged over my thighs. I pressed against him, taking his mouth and his heat.
Until . . . he stopped. His hands stilled. He rested his forehead against mine and opened his eyes. I stared into his brown eyes and he stared back. His breath came out in a shuddering exhale. And then he gave one last hard kiss and walked away.
I was left in the back garden, dizzy and aching. And then I was gone. Back to Geneva.
And now it’s Friday. Tonight I have my date with Max. And then I’ll dream.