Stranahan glanced sympathetically at the dog, which was dozing in a patch of shade under the palm tree. Three fat mangrove snappers flapped noisily in the bucket, but the Doberman didn't stir. He showed a commendable lack of interest in most of Stranahan's endeavors, including fishing and the occasional romance. Female visitors were greeted with a perfunctory sniff and then largely ignored. It was as if Strom knew they were destined to be short-timers, and thus saw no point in bonding.
The dog's opinion notwithstanding, Mick Stranahan didn't consider himself an eccentric or a hermit, even though at age fifty-three he lived alone on an island at the edge of the Atlantic with no landline, satellite dish or personal computer. It was sadly true, however, that the women who came to stay rarely lasted more than a few months, until the unrelenting peace and tranquillity drove them over the edge. Stranahan was sorry to let them go but it was kinder than marrying them, which had been a habit when he'd lived on the mainland.
Without knowing anything about Joey Perrone, Stranahan was impressed by her strength and composure. Many swimmers would have been either catatonic or yammering incoherently after a blind night at sea, but Joey was perfectly cogent and sharp. Stranahan was inclined to give her some downtime, as she had requested. He knew what it was like to survive a murder attempt, if that's what really had happened to her.
Part of him instinctively wanted to know more, to ask nosy questions and dig around like in the old days. A wiser inner voice told him to drop it-Mrs. Perrone and her marital crisis would be departing soon, and then the cops could sort out her story.
After all, I'm retired, Stranahan reminded himself as he unhooked another fish.
Retired.
After all these years, it still sounded absurd.
"What were you doing out there, anyway?" Joey asked.
"Out where?"
"The ocean. In that little boat of yours."
Stranahan dipped the fillets one by one in egg batter. "First of all, it wasn't exactly the ocean," he said. "It was only about a half mile off Elliott Key. And I was looking for tarpon."
"In other words, what you're telling me, I would've floated ashore anyway."
"Yeah, one way or another."
"So, technically, could we even call that a rescue?" she said. "Even though I was sort of digging the idea of being rescued."
"Be careful of the stove," said Stranahan.
Each slice of fish went first into a bowl of bread crumbs, then the frying pan. Joey heard the sizzle when the fillets landed in the hot oil; she counted eight and wondered if that would be enough for both of them. Never had she felt so famished.
"Tell me about yourself, Mick. I promise your darkest secrets are safe with me," she said.
"How are you feeling? Your eyes better?"
"I won't know until you take off this damn blindfold."
"It's not a blindfold," he said, "and you can take it off whenever you want."
He had cut a strip from a towel, soaked it in cool freshwater and aloe, then knotted it gently around Joey's brow. An hour earlier, stubbornly trying to get around the house by herself, she'd tripped over a sack of dog food and nearly busted an ankle.
"I don't even know your last name," she said.
"Stranahan."
"And exactly what do you do, Mr. S., besides plucking damsels from the deep blue sea?"
"Actually, it wasn't so deep. Maybe twenty feet where I found you."
"Okay, that's enough. You're determined to spoil this whole adventure for me," Joey said. "It's bad enough that I apparently owe my life to some Rastafarian pot smuggler. Now you tell me I was, like, five minutes from the beach at the time of my so-called rescue."
"Would it help if I said I saw a fifteen-foot hammerhead in that very same place last week?"
"You're kidding."
Stranahan shook his head. "Seriously. It was eating a stingray for lunch."
"No shit!"
"You want limes or tartar sauce?" he asked.
"Both." Joey jumped slightly when he took his hand in hers.
"It's okay," he said, and led her outside to a picnic table on the wooden deck. She flinched at the sudden wash of sunlight, so he told her to leave her eyes covered. With no assistance she was able to find the food, wolfing down four pieces of snapper and two helpings of black beans and rice. Afterward Stranahan brought her a piece of Key lime pie and a cold beer.
"Best meal I ever had," she declared, groping for another napkin.
"I'd say you're going to be just fine."
"What's that sound-a helicopter?"
"Yep. Coast Guard," Stranahan said, watching a distant orangish speck streak across the bay.
Joey said, "Wonder if they're searching for me."
"Could be."
She shifted restlessly. "You want to go back inside?"
"Why?" said Stranahan.
"Is the sun going down? I can tell because it's getting cooler. Is it pretty tonight-the sunset?"
"I've never seen a bad one."
Joey said, "Tomorrow the towel comes off and I finally get to find out what you look like. I'm guessing a middle-aged Clint Eastwood."
"Then you're in for a major disappointment."
"But you're tall, right?" she said. "Late forties?"
"Early fifties."
"Gray around the temples?"
"You want another beer?"
"Not just yet," Joey said. "Give me your hands again."
Stranahan laughed. "I don't think so. They're awful fishy."
"You eat with your fingers! I like that."
"My table manners aren't what they used to be," he said. "Comes from living alone, I guess."
Joey said, "How many times have you been married? I know it's incredibly rude to ask but, well, I've got a hunch."
"Six," Stranahan said. "Six times." He stood up and began gathering the plates off the table.
"Jesus. I was going to guess three."
"See, I'm full of surprises."
"What happened?" Joey asked, but all she got in reply was the bang of the screen door. Moments later she heard a running tap and the clink of dishes in the sink. When Stranahan came back outside, she apologized.
"What for? "he said.
"Being so nosy. I figured you must be pissed, since you slammed that door."
"Naw, the hinges are rusted to hell is all." He placed a cool bottle in her hand. "But it's true, six ex-wives is nothing to brag about."
"At least none of them tried to murder you," Joey said.
"One came pretty close."
"Really? She go to jail?"
"Nope. Died."
Joey's breath seemed to catch in her throat. She took a long unsteady slug of beer.
Stranahan said, "Relax, honey. I didn't kill her."
"Who was she?"
"When I met her? A waitress, just like the rest of 'em."
Joey couldn't help but giggle. "You married six waitresses?"
"Actually, it was five. The last one was a TV producer."
"Oh, Mick-"
"And they were all fairly wonderful at the start. Whatever went wrong was usually my fault."
"But what in the world were you thinking? I mean, honestly, by the time you got to number six-"
"Oh, I wasn't thinking," Stranahan said. "Love isn't about thinking. You should know that."
Joey Perrone leaned back and turned her draped face toward the fading light. "The sky out there, I bet it's all pink and gold. God, I must look like a horror with this blindfold."