Chapter 6
lovelillibet Whenever I’m about to meet someone new, I take a few minutes to center my soul. Who am I? Which parts of me do I want to share? Before I can be known, I have to be intimate with myself.
The ritual of exfoliation and lavishing my skin with a quality essential oil (right now I’m loving cold-pressed jojoba with a hint of gardenia) puts me in the right frame of mind. It’s as if I’m smoothing away the layers that stand between the deepest me and the hope of true connection.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A gardenia bush in bloom.
#naturalperfume #bespokescents #onlyoneme #lavishlife
The town car slowed before turning off onto a narrow lane studded with warning signs. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. NO PUBLIC ACCESS. YOU ARE TOO POOR TO LIVE HERE. The kind of person who created a holiday devoted to herself obviously wasn’t going to share a strip of asphalt with commoners.
They stopped in front of a tall metal fence. Hildy bounced in place as their driver entered the code she’d given him and the gate swung open.
It looked like a museum of architectural styles, the choose-your-own-mansion approach to designing a neighborhood: modern glass box, faux-Mediterranean, a Victorian cottage on steroids. A sandy path threaded the gap between two houses, offering a glimpse of blue. Jefferson rolled down his window. He wanted to follow that trail to the end.
Hildy leaned forward to address their driver. “Can you stop for a second, please?” When he obliged, she turned to face Jefferson. “I think it’s best if Lillibet’s first impression of me is as a strong, independent businesswoman. Someone she wants to partner with for the next phase of her career. You know what I’m saying?”
For once, he did. “Why don’t I get out and stretch my legs, let the two of you get acquainted?”
“Great idea.”
He grabbed his camera bag with one hand, reaching for the door with the other. “I hope she’s everything you want her to be.”
Hildy nodded. As the driver pulled away, she stuck her head out the window. “Don’t get eaten by sharks. I still need you.”
He saluted, watching until the car pulled into the driveway of a pistachio-colored house with a tile roof. Most of the structure was obscured by foliage, a climbing hedge that had been clipped into a wall of deep green leaves and woody vines. It wasn’t quite tall enough to conceal the size of the building, the wraparound veranda, or the general opulence of the place—all of which were exactly what he’d expect of someone as blatantly entitled as Lillibet.
That was for Hildy to discover in her own time. Shaking his head, Jefferson started down the path.
The transition from pavement to sand was gradual. First there was a gritty shiftiness on top of the sidewalk, then a few patchy clumps of grass, and finally softness, underfoot and all around. Jefferson stood still, letting the breeze wash over his skin, like maybe he’d felt it wrong the first time.
His brain struggled to make sense of a wind that didn’t bite or burn, that smelled like flowers instead of cold rocks and frozen water. Relax, said the air and the sunlight and the murmuring waves. It was like sinking into a warm bath on dry land.
Jefferson wasn’t sure he trusted all this lulling. The perfection struck him as suspicious, or at least unreal. He hadn’t even taken his camera out of the bag. There was nothing to photograph that wouldn’t seem clichéd, like a thousand mass-produced postcards already tacked up behind refrigerator magnets.
Except the woman sitting in the sand with her back to him, long tawny hair pulled to one side to expose the curving line of neck and shoulder.
The sun was in front of her, edging her silhouette in a buttery glow. It wasn’t quite the golden hour, but the light was gentle—like everything else—and even without clicking the shutter he knew in his bones this was an image he would remember. Jefferson told himself it was mostly aesthetic, the way his eye traced the guitar-like curve of shoulder and hip. He was in the habit of cataloging compositional details, even when they weren’t this visually pleasing.
She half turned as he approached, and he saw that her hand was buried in an open cellophane package. Her cheeks bulged as if he’d caught her mid-chew.
“Hey, uh, hi,” she choked, wiping her fingers on her bare thigh.
He wouldn’t have let himself take a second look at her legs if she hadn’t used them as a napkin. They were very long, it turned out, and bronzed. He suspected she would be tall, if she weren’t sitting with her toes buried in the sand.
“Would you like some?”
It took him a second to realize she was talking about the bag of food. “What is it?”
“Shrimp crackers.”
He frowned at the surf. “A little insensitive.”
Her smile revealed slightly crooked incisors that told him she’d never had braces. The warmth of her skin tone and streaky highlights in her hair spoke of a life spent in the sun. She had unexpectedly dark brown eyes and a small bump in the bridge of her nose. Her lips were pink and maybe a little chapped, though that could have been the residue of the crackers. It was an interesting face, as opposed to a perfectly symmetrical one. He wanted to keep looking at her. But that would have been weird, so he took in the view instead.
This strip of beach felt almost like a secluded cove, thanks to the rocks that stretched out into the water on one side and the heavy vegetation on the other. Up close the ocean appeared more blue-gray than turquoise, churned up into whitecapped peaks as it raced toward shore.
“Do you want to sit?” She patted the sand beside her.
The invitation took him by surprise, but not in a bad way. Until she started to get up.
“I assume you’re here for the sunset, not Portrait of Scruffy Girl Stress-Eating.” Her chin lifted to indicate his camera bag. “I’ll get out of your shot.”
He waved at her to stay. “I wanted to see the ocean.”
“Oh good. Because you’re like two hours early for sunset. And on the wrong side of the island. It’s still pretty but, you know. Rises in the east, sets in the west.”
“The mites crawl up, the tights fall down.”
She blinked at him.
“That’s how I remember stalagmites versus stalactites. In caves.”
“Ah.” It sounded like she wanted to laugh. “I take it you’re not from around here.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Her nod was solemn. “You’re wearing a lei. Which could mean luau, except the outfit is all wrong.”
“No aloha shirt?” Hildy had tried to coerce him into wearing one, but he’d held firm that pink was not his color, even if you called it salmon.
“I was thinking more of the shoes.” She pointed at his feet. “And socks.”
Now that she’d mentioned them, he was acutely aware of how sweaty and confined his feet felt.
“You should take them off,” she said, as if reading his mind.
Jefferson didn’t know whether it said more about her voice (low and a little throaty) or his life (short on excitement, at least until recently) that this was the most titillating suggestion he’d heard in months.
“Not to boss you around,” she added. “It’s just the sand gets in them, and you can’t wear slippers with socks.”
“Because of fashion?”
“And the toe divider.” She held up a battered red sandal.
“Ah. We call them flip-flops. Or thongs.” Unless that word had been given over entirely to stringy underwear? He was not going to ask.
“Take a load off,” she said, when he continued to stand stiffly on the sand.
“You don’t mind?”
“Pretty sure this beach is big enough for the two of us. I don’t really believe in private beaches anyway. How do you own the ocean? These exact grains of sand? Good luck with that.”
He smiled as he settled beside her, not so close that she’d feel like she had to talk to him, but not so far that it would shut the door on further conversation. Also this way he could strip off his socks at a safe distance.
When neither of them spoke, other sounds filled the air. The whoosh of the surf tugged at Jefferson’s pulse, slowing his breathing to match the rhythmic rise and fall. He watched the fizzing wake mark the limit of each wave’s reach, rushing across the sand before being sucked back to sea. The beach was striped in rippled bands, from dry to damp to drenched. The high-water line seemed clearly defined, until a random wave skidded right past it, forcing him to lift his feet to keep them from getting wet.
“Aw, go on. You can’t come all this way and not at least dip your toes in.” Standing, she brushed sand off the back of her shorts as she moved toward the water, beckoning Jefferson to follow.
Maybe there was something to this act-like-a-different-person-on-vacation idea. Could Jefferson become the kind of guy who frolicked through the surf in slow motion with a beautiful stranger? He rolled up the bottoms of his jeans, ready to find out.
“You live someplace cold?” she guessed, and he could tell she’d been checking out his legs. Or at least his spring-in-Wyoming tan.
“Very.”
“I’ve never seen snow. In real life. I’ve only been to the mainland once, and we got off the plane and went straight to Disney. My mom decided my childhood wouldn’t be complete without Space Mountain. ‘What are credit cards for, sweetie?’” She relayed the last part in a breezy falsetto. Then her brain seemed to catch up with her words and she frowned at the sand, clearly embarrassed. Jefferson couldn’t tell her not to worry—that he liked her honesty—so he pretended not to notice.
“It’s a little like this,” he said, as his feet shifted in the sand, slipping backward with each step. “Snow. Except it doesn’t hold you up. Unless you’re on skis. And it’s a lot colder. Obviously.” Was he babbling? It was possible he’d spent too much time around Hildy.
“Speaking of cold, are you ready?”
He watched the foaming edge of the water surge toward them and then away again, hissing as it disappeared. It was at least seventy-five degrees and sunny, high summer conditions where he was from. “I think I can handle it.”
“Okay. On three.” Her eyes locked on his as she counted down, one finger at a time.
Jefferson was so busy watching her face he was a beat behind when she darted forward, splashing in up to her shins. It took another second for his brain to process the sensation of a thousand ice knives stabbing his lower legs. Gasping, he hobbled back onto dry sand, bending down to make sure his feet were still attached.
“People swim in that?”
“You get used to it. It’s better to go for it. Little-by-little will kill you.”
He frowned at the waves cresting farther offshore. “What happens when you run into one of those?”
“Either you catch a ride or dive under and let it wash over you.”
“I’m game if you are.” Vacation Jefferson was off his rocker. He wasn’t mentally or physically prepared for an ice bath in churning seas, and definitely didn’t have the right gear. But apparently his inner twelve-year-old would do anything to impress a girl. Or at least this one.
Her laughter was a shot of adrenaline to his heart. “Wait, are you serious? In your jeans?”
He wasn’t sure whether she was worried he was about to strip, or that he might drown in waterlogged denim. “I hadn’t thought that far,” he admitted. “But I’m not wearing—” Jefferson broke off, trying to think of a way to reassure her without being crude.
“Underwear?” she whispered, like maybe he’d forgotten the word.
“No. Or yes, I am wearing underwear. But they’re … decent. Uh, modest.” Now it sounded like he was part of a religious sect. The only phrase that came to mind was nut sack. Thank you, Hildy. Apparently she had also packed him a bathing suit in case his taste was “stuck in the eighties,” as she put it. “Full coverage.”
“No Speedo? Bummer.” Her smile faded when her gaze snagged on his watch.
“I’ll leave it with my bag.” He started to unbuckle the strap.
She touched his wrist. “Wait.” His entire body stilled at the skin-to-skin contact. “What time is it?”
“Four twenty-seven.”
“Damn.” She blew out a breath. “Jean’s going to kill me.”
Jefferson waited for her to elaborate, hoping the next words out of her mouth would be that’s my boss or pit bull or even parole officer, anything but the other half of a couple.
“I should probably go,” she mumbled.
“Okay.” He tried to summon what Hildy called his resting dead face.
“Here.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a shell, rubbing it on the front of her shorts before handing it to him. “Let’s make a wish first.”
“You’re not going to steal my voice, are you?”
“Was that … a Little Mermaid reference?”
“I have nieces.”
She bit her lip to hide a grin. “Okay, Ariel. Make your wish, then kiss the shell and throw it as far as you can out to sea.”
He watched the wind play in her hair. “Are you doing one, too?”
“You know what, why not?” There was a defiant edge to her voice as she pulled out another shell, this one spotted brown on the pale pink underside. He wondered if her pockets were always full of perfect seashells or if she’d collected them today, before his arrival. If she often wandered this beach—and whether she’d mind company.
“That’s probably where my mom got it. From a cartoon. I can’t believe I never made that connection. Though a lot of hers were more like curses.” Her eyes crinkled at his look of surprise. “Nothing too dark. Sometimes she’d drag me down to the beach so she could pour out a little white zinfandel and symbolically purge her troubles. Damn you, Bobby. I hope your stupid golf shirts shrink in the dryer. That kind of thing.” She paused, as if replaying her last words, before grimacing. “Oversharing, party of one.”
Jefferson cocked his arm and threw the shell as far as it would go. They watched it plop beneath the surface, breaking the tension.
“What’d you wish for?” she asked.
He pretended to zip his lips.
“Come on, it’s not like blowing out candles on a cake.” Her face fell. “Crap. Crap, crap, crap.”
“What?”
“I was supposed to help with dessert, too.” She winced like she’d stepped on something sharp. “We’re hosting a dinner tonight. Very important guests.” Turning, she hurled her shell into the breaking surf, lips moving in a silent plea to whatever higher power was in charge of seashell wishes.
“It will be fine.” Who wouldn’t want to have dinner with a beautiful woman who shared her crackers with random passersby before luring them into the sea?
“I’ll probably be too nervous to eat. But thanks.” She looked up long enough to flash him a smile. “Um. I better go.” He watched her fidget, shifting her weight back and forth. “Nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, already turning away.
“I was thinking about checking out the sunrise tomorrow,” he said, before she could get too far. “I hear it’s nice on this side of the island.”
At the sound of his voice, she had stopped moving. Now she glanced back. “I’m not a morning person. You’d have to drag me out of bed.”
Jefferson cleared his throat, which had gone dry. It was too easy to imagine her sleepy-eyed and warm-skinned with her hair spread out across a pillow, like his subconscious was whispering, You wish.
And maybe her thoughts were traveling along similar lines, because she seemed to be having trouble meeting his eyes. “I mean I sleep late.” She put a hand to her flushed cheek. “Okaybye,” she blurted, breaking into a run.
He realized he was smiling. The sticky haze of travel had washed away as if he’d plunged headfirst into the Pacific after all. Jefferson wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he had a feeling his wish would come true.
And when they did meet again, he’d be sure to ask her name.