Blind Date
by
T. J. Robertson
Smashwords Edition
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Blind Date
Copyright © 2011 by T. J. Robertson
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Chapter 1
Being a successful female executive in the competitive world of banking and finance, Susan Ross experienced periods of stress, times of crisis, and even spells of quiet desperation more often than she cared to admit. So, upon such occasions--no matter what the season--at some point her inner compass would be sure to lead her down to her favorite place of refuge--Cape Cod.
As soon as her car crossed over the Bourne Bridge, she would slow down, lower her window, and take a deep breath. More often than not, a good dose of that Cape-Cod salt air would be enough to lift her spirits. If not, a visit to Drummer Boy Park, a leisurely bike ride through Nickerson State Park, or a desultory stroll along Corporation Beach would almost certainly do so.
The summer, of course, provided her with even more opportunities for self renewal. A plunge into the incoming tide at Paine's Creek Beach or a dip in fresh water of Scargo Lake would do wonders for her mental health.
If all else failed to perk her up, as a last resort she would clamber aboard her sailboat, aptly named Footloose and Fancy-Free, and shove off, leaving both the shore and her cares behind. She would wile away the hours gliding aimlessly across the shimmering blue waters of the bay, all the while savoring the scent of the salt air, the caress of the fresh breeze, and the spray of the blown spume. The refrain of the waves, gently lapping at the bow of the boat, was ever the same: "Simplify, simplify, simplify."
Although it was difficult for an executive as energetic, driven, and successful as was she to do so, she, nevertheless, took that advice to heart. As a result of these outings for the first time in her life she became aware of the beauty, bounty, diversity, and, of course, simplicity of Mother Nature. Whether it was a flock of screaming herring gulls, a pod of playful seals, a solitary harbor porpoise, or a piece of driftwood--she would peal with delight at the sight and sound of whatever chance chose to put in her path.
One thing was for sure; she always returned from such jaunts on the Footloose and Fancy-Free feeling calmer, more refreshed, and ready once again for combat within the corporate world from which most of her pressing problems came.
On this particular day, however, the culprit, who had caused such intense and persistent mental anguish, wasn't some other bank executive--usually male--trying to climb another rung in the ladder of success at her expense. He was, instead, her fiancé.
The gentle breeze was toying with errant strands of her blond hair, which were peeking out from beneath her cap; the splendor of the sky on this cloudless, Cape-Cod day was proving no match for the beauty of her sapphire eyes; and the bright red buoys were bobbing higher and higher in the wake of the sailboat as if trying, in envy, to catch a glimpse of her ruby lips. Her taut breasts strained sensually against the cotton fabric of her lavender tank top and her fine hips and shapely thighs, respectively, appeared even finer and more shapely beneath her tight-clinging white shorts.
Rufus Fenstermacher," she murmured, tightening her grip on the handle of the tiller as if she might have been squeezing his throat. "I've had it with these jealous, petty outbursts of yours. One more and it’s strike three; you’re out. Do you understand?"
Apparently, once again, her jaunt in the Footloose and Fancy Free had caused a kind of magical catharsis; for that audible warning to one, Rufus Fenstermacher, brought the seething anger, which he had caused, to the surface and helped dissipate it. So, feeling calmer and more at ease, she leaned back, stretched her long, slender legs, and began to doze.
Although her mumblings had come to an abrupt halt, her sailboat had not and, at that moment, its bow hit another boat broadside.
Mark Roberts, wearing a white T-shirt, emblazoned in black with the words, A Wise Man Doesn't Need Advice And A Fool Won't Take It, and a pair of beige cargo shorts, was sprawled out on the floor of his dinghy, his head and broad shoulders propped up against a float cushion at the stern and his muscular calves draped over the rowing seat. A battered, broad-brimmed Musto hat kept his unruly, sandy, corn-silk-like hair under tight control and a pair of aviator sunglasses, perched on the bridge of his aquiline nose, shielded his hazel eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. Bronzed cheeks, a tight but generous mouth, and a stubbly, square jaw gave his face a look of inherent strength and confidence. His left hand, calloused from hard work, held a strand of deep-sea fishing line, the end of which was lying on the bottom of the bay, and remained alert to the slightest tug. All the while the anchored dinghy was bobbing gently up and down at the whim of the waves.
"Women," he mused, pulling the brim of his hat down until it touched the rim of his glasses, "you can't live with them and you can't live without them. Well, Penelope, my darling, I sure as heck can live without you."
The sarcasm he directed at the woman in question would have continued had he not suddenly found himself, like a space capsule, hurtling through the air and splashing down into the water; for, at that moment Susan Ross and her sailboat had hit him and his skiff broadside.
As a result of the force of the impact she had somersaulted over the stern of her sailboat and ended up, unscathed, in the drink. She was treading water and watching helplessly as her sailboat, bereft of its pilot, continued on out across the bay when, all of a sudden, Mark's head broke the surface of the water several yards from her.. "Oh!" she shrieked as much from shock as from fright.
After taking several gulps of fresh air and clearing his eyes, he. too, appeared unhurt. "Look, Miss, I apologize for frightening you," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I know I should've done the gallant thing and stayed under water and drowned, but the truth is I'm a coward." As if to emphasize that last point he threw his head back, releasing a shower of droplets from his hair.
So taken aback was she by his nasty greeting that she found herself at a loss for words.
"Can you swim?" he asked, treading water.
"What do you think I'm doing now?" she retorted, finding her voice again.
"I believe they call it treading water," he answered, raising an eyebrow in amused contempt.
If she found his sarcasm irksome, she found his smiling at her as if she were a child even more so. "Of course, I can swim," she snapped.
"Do you think you can make it to the island?" he asked, pointing behind her.
She turned her head and gasped in surprise. In all the commotion she had forgotten just how close she was to it. Recovering, she answered his question with one of her own. "What are you going to do?"
"Since the tide's coming in, I'm going to hang onto the stern of my skiff," he replied, gesturing toward his water-laden boat, bobbing nearby "and try to keep its bow headed toward the island. "Hopefully the current will carry it and me there."
"Well, I have a better idea," she retorted.
The calmness and self-confidence with which those words rolled off her tongue surprised him. "Oh, really?" he replied, weighing her with a critical squint.
She nodded. "I'll cling to the bow with one hand to keep it pointed toward the island and paddle with the other while you hang onto the stern and kick your feet," she explained. "With the help of the incoming tide we should have enough power to get us there."
He shrugged and gave her a grudging compliment, muttering, "At this point I'll take all the help I can get."
And so it was with her clinging to the bow and paddling, him hanging onto the stern and kicking his feet, and the in-coming tide doing its thing, the two castoffs and water-filled skiff set a course for the island. Without a word crossing the lips of either one of them they reached their destination a half-hour later.
No sooner had Mark's feet touched bottom than he reached into the boat and pulled out the anchor. When he had planted it firmly in the sand beyond the water line and, thus, secured the boat, he plopped down and leaned back against the side of an old dory, long since abandoned and rotting away.
Meanwhile Susan was pacing nervously back and forth, her eyes scouring the water for any sign of a boat. When Mark broke the silence with a heavy sigh, she stopped her pacing and stared down at him. “Are you okay?” she asked, a feeling of guilt getting the better of her.
“Yes, but no thanks to you," he replied tersely.
Suddenly she found herself on the defensive. "Hey. look; I didn't do it on purpose. It was an accident."
His broad shoulders shrugged dismissively. "It was an accident that should never have happened."
She sighed. “At least you have your rowboat.”
"Oh, sure," he scoffed, running a hand through his moist, sandy hair. “Because of you it’s been turned into a bathtub.”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” she replied petulantly. “My sailboat, Footloose and Fancy-Free, is floating somewhere out on the bay.”
If she was expecting any sympathy from him, she didn't get it. “It’s probably trying to catch up to my oars.“
She glared down at him and shook her head. “Very funny.”
“It serves you right,” he persisted, “and I’d suggest you change its name from Footloose and Fancy-Free to Get Out of my Way or Else."
His sarcasm sparked her anger. “Must you be so rude?”
His hazel eyes caught and held her blue ones. “Look, lady--and I use that term in the loosest sense--because of your negligence or stupidity--take your pick-- I just narrowly escaped serious injury. I also lost a hundred dollar rod and reel--not to mention an expensive tackle box and a pair of oars.”
“If it’ll make you feel any better,” she replied with growing frustration, “I’ll reimburse you for your lost toys.”
"Oh, damn," he cursed, tapping the top of his head, "my Musto's gone, too."
"Musto?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Were you drinking in the skiff?"
"Drinking?" he exclaimed, his brow wrinkling into an affronted frown. "I'm talking about my Musto broad-brimmed hat. It's my favorite and it's priceless."
"As I said," she replied, clenching her jaw, "I'll repay you for your playthings."
“And just in case nobody’s told you,” he said, ignoring her offer, “a sailboat’s not supposed to be used as a lethal weapon.”
“Why didn’t you blow your whistle to warn me?” she demanded, looming above him with hands on her hips.
He shook his head in disbelief. “I was minding my own business, trying to do some fishing when you slammed into my boat, almost drowning me. Now you have the unmitigated gall to blame me.”
She crossed her arms and raised her chin in a show of defiance. “Because you didn’t have a whistle or a life jacket," she scolded, "both of which are required by law.”
“Now I suppose you’ll have me walk the plank?” he replied with a mock salute.
“Oh, if only I had that power,” she murmured, pacing back and forth. He laughed and she said, “Besides, you used poor judgment by fishing in a channel used by sailboats from the yacht club.”
"What?" he cried out, a mix of disbelief and anger in his voice. “Since when is it a crime to fish anywhere out on this bay?”
She didn’t answer the question but stopped her pacing and, shielding her eyes, looked out across the bay. “Are you expecting somebody?” he asked with thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Yes, Rufus," she replied, scouring the surface of the water for any sign of boat.
He couldn’t resist a snicker. “Who’s Rufus--the family pet?”
“Rufus just happens to be my fiancé,” she replied, turning around and wrinkling her nose.
“Oh, really?”
She folded her arms across her ample bosom and chastised him with her eyes. “It may come as a surprise to you but I have one.”
“I’m not surprised,” he answered, his voice brimming with sarcasm. “I’m shocked.”
“You're a bundle of laughs.” She shook her head in disgust and resumed her pacing. “Hopefully, he’ll arrive soon and take me as far away from you as possible.”
“Believe me;” he scoffed, “it can’t be soon enough or far away enough to suit me.”
Her brows drew together in an angry frown. “You are without a doubt the crudest man I’ve ever met.”
“With your personality I doubt whether you ever met more than one and you probably did that by slamming into his car in traffic.”
She stopped her pacing and whirled around. “Are you finished with your smart-alecky remarks?” she snapped, hands on her hips and chin thrust forward. .
Her threatening stance, glowering look, and sharp words had their desired effect. “For the time being," he replied, running a hand across the stubble on his chin, "yes.”
Noting his hand gesture, she saw a chance to return his last insult in kind and seized it. "And the next time you shave, put a blade in the razor," she quipped, quickly resuming her pacing.
A look of faint amusement overspread his wind and sun-bronzed face. “Do me a favor, will you?” he replied, lowering his voice. “Stop pacing back and forth and try to relax. You’re beginning to make me nervous.”
Now she was the one laughing. “In that case I’ll walk all the faster," she needled.
He shrugged in resignation but said nothing.
She stopped her pacing and scanned the water. “That’s just great, still nothing in sight.” Shaking her head in frustration, she turned toward him and murmured, “A fate worse than death.”
If she thought he hadn't heard her complaint, she was mistaken. “And what’s that, may I ask?" His gaze went from the delicate features of her face to her ample bosom and back again.
“Being marooned on an island with a Neanderthal like you,” she replied, her blue eyes flashing with disdain.
“Well, if worse comes to worse," he said with a glint of humor in his hazel ones, “I suppose you can always climb back on your broomstick and fly back to the mainland.”
Once again she had let his rejoinder get the better of her.. “Must you be so obnoxious?” she fumed.
“Don’t worry, “he said with a smirk, “I won’t be annoying you much longer.”
“Thank heavens.” She threw her hands skyward to emphasize the point.
He ignored her theatrics. “After I rest awhile,” he said, folding his brawny arms behind his neck and stretching his legs out farther across the sand, “I’ll put as much distance as possible between us.”
“Just how do you plan to do that?” she asked with as much curiosity as skepticism.
“By swimming to the mainland,” he replied, shifting the position of his muscular shoulders against the side of the dory.
She burst out laughing. “Are you crazy?”
“If I am, it’s your fault,” he chided, waving a finger at her. “Besides, I didn’t think you cared.”
“I refuse to stand by and watch you drown as much as I might enjoy that spectacle,” she replied, her azure eyes narrowing speculatively. “Besides, with my luck your body’s apt to wash up right here in front of me.”
“I have no intention of giving you satisfaction on either one of those counts.” He paused and moistened his dry lips before saying, “I have another idea.”
“Impossible,” she retorted with a dismissive gesture. “You have to have a brain to get an idea.”
“Now who’s the funny one?” he retorted with a wag of his head.
She didn’t respond but resumed her pacing.
For a long time he just sat there, shaking his head. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” he said, breaking the silence at last, “I think I know how we can get off the island."
In a single motion she stopped her pacing, whirled around, and declared without conviction, "Oh, really?"
He nodded. "Yes," he replied, forming a steeple with his long, strong fingers. "We can start bailing out the rowboat--"
"With what?" she broke in.
"With those discarded cans over there," he replied, pointing to the remains some picnickers had left behind. "And when it becomes light enough, we'll tip it and empty out the rest of the water. Then we'll drag it back into the water and try to row to the mainland in it."
Her lips twisted into a cynical smile. "How do you intend to do that without any oars, Robinson Crusoe?"
He rolled his eyes and replied dryly, "Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Flattery?" she ridiculed with a stern-faced expression. "Don't you wish it?"
Ignoring her retort, he tore a piece of rotted wood off the dory and said, "I'll take some strips like these--even though they're wet from last night's shower--and fashion them into oars."
His plan seemed to amuse her. “You know something?”
“How could I know anything?" he scoffed as if sensing what her reaction to his suggestion would be. "I don’t have a brain, remember?”
"Even if your scheme were foolproof," she replied, bursting out into laughter, "“I wouldn’t get into a boat with a lunatic like you. I'd rather stay on this island alone for the rest of my life.”
“As my mother always was fond of reminding me, `Sticks and stone will break your bones but names'll never hurt you." He paused and, then, with a smug look said, "And as for your staying on this island for the rest of your life, I’d be more than happy to try to arrange it.”
She matched his sarcasm with some her own. "Besides, with you as helmsman we’d probably end up on the beaches of Normandy rather than those of Cape Cod.”
“If you have a better idea," he said, throwing up his hands, "I’d like to hear it.”
Choosing not to respond, she again began pacing back and forth. “I can’t understand it,” she said, more to herself than to him. “We’ve been here for over an hour and not a sign of another sailboat.”
“Don’t fight it,” he mocked. “Perhaps it’s your kismet to remain on Paradise Island with the man of your dreams.”
Again he was a victim of her glare as she stopped her pacing and turned to face him. “With the creature from the black lagoon would be more like it."
Suddenly he jumped to his feet and pointed out across the bay. “Hey, isn’t that one of the sailboats from the yacht club?” he exclaimed with a chuckle.
She whirled around and, giving him a dirty look, enthused, "Salvation at last.” Before he could respond, she, like a windmill gone amok, was waving her arms at the sailboat. “Help! Help!" she hollered. "Over here, we need your help.”
“They’re waving to you and going on their merry way,” he said, unable to resist a snicker. “Apparently they think you’re enjoying a picnic with the man of your dreams.”
“Don’t just stand there,” she scolded. "Do something.”
Crossing his brawny arms in a pose of tranquility, he asked, “What would you suggest?”
“Send them some kind of distress signal," she retorted in a panic. "Light a fire.”
Amusement flickered in his hazel eyes as they glanced at her blue ones. “I’d gladly do that if I had some wood.”
Now she was jumping up and down as well as waving her hands. “Use--use the remains of the dory," she stammered. "Better still your rowboat.”
"Oh sure," he mocked with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “As much as I dislike being marooned here with you, I’d dislike seeing my boat go up in flames even more so.”
Her eyes darted from the sailboat, moving off in the distance, to him and back. “This is no time to be sentimental,” she demanded in a shrill voice.
“You’re right; let’s be practical, not sentimental," he replied with feigned severity. "But, in case you’ve forgotten, the wood for the fire’s supposed to be dry. Neither the dory nor my boat are in such a condition. And, of course, it helps to have some matches.”
She threw up her hands in despair. “Oh, what in heaven’s name am I going to do?”
“Well, for starters you can calm down and wait here with me until help arrives.” Again he sat down and leaned back against the side of the dory.
She shrugged in resignation. “Being stranded here with you another hour would be more than any human being should be asked to endure,” she said petulantly.
He chuckled. “Just think of all the scintillating conversation we could have.”
Scintillating?" An eyebrow rose in amused contempt. "Why I doubt you could even spell the word.”
“Oh, no,” he exclaimed with righteous indignation. “S-c-i-n-t-i-l-l-a-t-i-n-g." Having spelled it correctly, he measured her with a cool, appraising look. "Now how's my spelling grab you?”
“All that means is you’re not the idiot I thought you were," she replied, pushing aside a strand of blond hair from her blue eyes, which were firmly fixed on his hazel ones. "You’re a moron.”
He threw his arms up and shook his head. “Very funny, Miss Genius.”
Putting her hands over her ears, she moved farther away from him. “If I have to listen to anymore of your prattling, I swear I’ll go stark-raving mad.”
“In that case I’ll turn up the volume.”
“Why don’t you stop being so crude?” she demanded.
“I guess I’ll have to,” he said, pointing out across the bay. “There’s another boat out there.”
“It’s probably Rufus, worried to death about me.” Jumping up and down, she shouted, “Help! Help!”
“Is he in the lobster business?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“Of course not,” she replied indignantly.
He chortled. “Well, it’s a lobster boat that’s coming to your rescue.”
If looks could've killed, at that moment hers would vaporized him. “Right now I wouldn’t care if it were a floating bathtub as long as it would get me away from you."
“Well, you're in luck," he taunted. "An old crab like you should feel right at home on a lobster boat.”
Ignoring him, she heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens. Whoever he is he's definitely spotted me, waving, and now’s turning the boat this way.” She paused and smirked at him. “With no help from you I’ve saved both our lives.”
“Hey," he protested, gesturing with his hands, "don’t do me any favors.”
“Whew," she exclaimed, wiping her forehead in a mock show of relief, "I can hardly wait to get out of here.”
“With all due respect for your genuine concern about my welfare," he said tongue in cheek, "I think it would be better for both of us if I stayed here and waited for the next boat.”
Again she met his sarcasm with some of her own. “What a wonderful idea.”
“Of course," he said with a wry smile, "you never can tell about those lobstermen.”
Her brow crinkled warily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They don’t have your yacht-club manners and, being at sea for long periods of time," he replied, trying in vain to keep a straight face, "sometimes--crazy as it may seem--they even find a woman like you appealing.” He burst out laughing.
Suddenly she found herself disconcerted. “I’d--I'd take a lobsterman over you any day," she stammered, "but, if you do decide to come along, I’ll just hold my nose.”
“Oh, so that’s what it is,” he wisecracked. “All this time I thought you were eating a banana.”
She fixed him on the end of a withering stare. “All I know is being here with you has been a lesson in self-control.”
For a long time neither one of them looked at the other nor spoke a word. When, at last, Mark glanced up, the expression on her face surprised him. The smile, which began at the corners of her ruby lips, quickly spread across her satiny face, even infecting her finely hewn features. Feeling self-conscious, he found himself asking, "Would you mind telling me what you find so amusing?"
"The caption on your T-shirt," she replied, placing her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
"You mean `A Wise Man Doesn't Need Advice And A Fool Won't Take?'" he asked, glancing down at his chest.
She nodded.
"What about it?" he asked warily.
"Now I know why it's a waste of time trying to talk with you," she replied, giggling.
"Oh, really?" His expression was one of pained tolerance.
"Yes," she said, her giggling turning into laughter.
"Speaking of wasting time," he scolded, "if you'd stop laughing, perhaps you'd be able to tell me why it's a waste of time to talk with me."
"Because you're a fool who won't listen, much less take advice" Now she was laughing uncontrollably.
"Very funny." He smiled woodenly.
"For the life of me," she said between paroxysms of laughter, "I don't understand why you'd go around, wearing that T-shirt and advertising it to the world."
"Because I'm a fool," he replied, making a face. "Obviously."
"Obviously," she declared, making a face in turn.
So busy were they trading insults that they hadn't noticed the dinghy that had slid silently to a stop upon the sand much less the ungainly and gangling man striding toward them. The most prominent features of his long narrow face were his dark, darting eyes, neatly trimmed mustache, and crooked nose. Wearing a charcoal Brooks Brothers' suit with a white handkerchief neatly stuffed into his coat pocket, starched white shirt, and red silk tie, held in place with a gold tie clip, he looked as if he belonged in a fancy office on the top floor of skyscraper on Wall Street rather than in the lowly tender of a lobster boat out on Cape Cod Bay.
He swept her into his arms as if he were the leading man, playing the hero, in some epic film. "Have no fear, my dear; you're now safely within my grasp." he proclaimed with dramatic flair. "I'm going to take you away from here and safely back to the mainland."
Their long and intimate embrace drew a frown from Mark. When, at last, she pulled herself from his grasp, she glared across at her fellow castaway. “Am I glad to see you, Rufus?” That greeting was meant more for his ears than for Rufus's.
“So am I,” Mark replied, giving her the evil eye in turn. “Now maybe I can have some peace of mind.”
“Who’s he?” Rufus's eyes darted suspiciously from her to him and back.
“That’s a long story that I’d rather not go into right now,” she said with disdain.
“I’d like to hear about it,” he replied, his jealousy welling up to the surface.. “Some people from the yacht club said they saw a couple picnicking here on the island.”
Mark wagged his head and chuckled. “Believe me; it was no picnic.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” she snapped, whirling around to confront him.
“If you’d have been minding yours," he shot back, "I wouldn’t be sitting here, having to listen to your complaints.”
Rufus waved a finger menacingly at him. “How dare you speak to my fiancée in that tone of voice.”
“How dare your fiancée try to kill me with her sailboat.”
She crossed her arms and drew her brows together in an angry frown. “The man’s a raving lunatic; ignore him.”
“I warn you that I’m skilled in the martial arts,” Rufus boasted, gesturing with his hands.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” Mark replied with a shrug. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Rufus’s hackles went up. “A lover?” Turning to Susan, he demanded, “Has he violated you?”
Before Susan, who was taken aback by the question, could answer, Mark said, “If anybody’s been violated, it’s me.”
“I warn you one more time,” Rufus persisted with a flourish, “I know jiujitsu, karate, and haiku.”
“You mean kung fu,” she corrected.
“Yes,” he replied with a vigorous wag of his head, “I know that, too.”
“Forget him, Rufus,” she said, rolling her eyes in frustration as much over his remarks as those of Mark. “Let’s just get out of here.”
“Certainly, dear,” he cooed, taking her arm and turning to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought he asked, “Oh, by the way, do you have twenty dollars on you?”
“No, of course not. My purse and cell phone are in my sailboat somewhere out in the bay.” Her disbelief at such a question showed in the look on her face as well as in the tone of her voice.
"Now, darling, I don't want you worrying about your sailboat," he said, tightening his arm around her. "As soon as I get you safely back to the yacht club, I'll go out and find it for you."
Mark rubbed his stubbly chin and, with a mischievous grin, quipped, "Oh, while you're at it, keep an eye out for my oars."
She hurled a hostile backward glance at him. "Rufus," she said between gritted teeth, "please get me away from this piece of human--eh--eh--" Suddenly she found herself searching in vain for an appropriate word to describe him.
Rufus came to her rescue. "Dross?"
"Yes, that's just the word I was looking for," she agreed with a firm wag of her head. "Take me away from this human piece of dross before I forget I'm a lady."
"At your service," he cooed, drawing her even closer. "But about that twenty dollars?"
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do you need twenty dollars for?”
“I told the captain of the lobster boat that I’d give him twenty dollars to take me here and back to the yacht club,” he said matter-of-factly, "but unfortunately I don't have my wallet with me."
Mark got up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his. “I, a human piece of dross," he reminded them with glee, "just happen to have a water-logged twenty in here.” He took it out and, looking like the cat that just swallowed the canary, waved it in front of them. “You’re welcome to join me on the trip back but only if the two of you behave yourselves," he warned, putting on a stern face. "If you don’t, I’ll have you thrown overboard.” He burst out laughing as he hurried past them to the lobsterman, waiting in the skiff.
Reluctantly, Susan and Rufus climbed into the dinghy after him. On the way to the lobster boat and from the latter on the trip back to the mainland, not a word was exchanged among the three of them. Because the last thing she wanted to do was to glance up and find Mark smirking exultantly at her, she turned away from him and bowed her head, her expression a mask of stone. But she needn't have worried; for, a feeling of tired sadness had replaced the one of joy their verbal jousting had given him earlier.
Chapter 2
After straightening out a lamp shade on one of the end tables that flanked the sofa and rearranging its pillows, Wanda Costa, dressed simply in a flowered blouse, ivory vest, and dark slacks, took a step back and made a final inspection of the living room of her small, Spartanly furnished apartment. The smile of satisfaction that she wore didn't go unnoticed as her husband, Russ, brandishing a spatula, bounded in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. A long white apron partially covered his plaid flannel shirt and brown corduroy pants, which were held up by a pair of bright red suspenders. Silk-screened in the middle of the apron was a picture of a pizza on a peel with the words: I'm a chef with appeal.
The newly weds couldn't have been more different.
Wanda offered a study in contrasts. Her petite and delicate appearance--"a wee wisp of a thing" as her husband was fond of reminding her--was deceiving; for, she could be a fearless and formidable foe if provoked. At such times her temper became more fiery than her flaming red hair and the smile on her girlish, freckled, and dimpled face would morph into a snarl. But, more often than not, her demeanor was that of a caring and compassionate wife.
Russ was a short, flabby, and awkward young man whose moon face was topped off with wiry, dark hair, which already was in full retreat, toward a bald spot at the back of his head, and gray eyes with a devilish gleam and ended with a bulbous nose and a wide mouth, which always had a mischievous smile playing at its corners. His temperament, unlike his wife's, never vacillated. He was, and always would be, a humorous and fun-loving guy without a serious bone in his body.
"Congratulations, dear, you've just won the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval," he joked, running a finger playfully across the top of the freshly polished coffee table in front of the sofa.
She met his smile with one of her own. "Am I expected to give an acceptance speech?"