Dead ahead.
Steve thought of Ben Stubbs, dead indeed. He thought of Victoria, upset with him for grievances he could barely comprehend. He thought of his father, angry at him for nothing more than trying to restore his lost reputation. With a sense of uncertainty and foreboding, Steve tried to figure out just what was going on.
Why is Vic so pissed off, anyway?
Hadn't he curbed the habits that offended her feminine sensibilities? He'd cut way down on the scratching, burping, and farting. He'd quit representing hookers, and it had been months since he'd spent all night playing Texas Hold 'Em at the Miccosukee casino. Not only that, he'd been considerate of her foibles, too. Did he say anything last week when she used his razor to shave her legs, then put it back on the sink, where it lay, waiting to maim him like a rusty machete? Not a word, other than "Ouch!" On her birthday, hadn't he written her a sexy poem, working her love of tennis into the last stanza? She didn't seem to appreciate the effort it took to find a rhyme for "Martina Hingis." Did she think the word just popped into his head: "cunnilingus"?
He pressed his face to the window just as the plane banked hard and began to descend. An island shimmered out of the water like a green mirage. Circling the shoreline was a single-lane road that connected to a private causeway linking the island to Lower Matecumbe Key.
The seaplane headed for a horseshoe-shaped cove on the Gulf side. At the far end was a concrete dock where the Force Majeure would have been docked if it wasn't being hauled away in pieces from Sunset Key. Next to the dock, a sandy beach studded with saw palmetto trees. Half-a-dozen snowy egrets wading in the shallow water took to the air at the sound of the engines. A sloping lawn rose from the shoreline to a strand of Australian pines that surrounded a large, three-story wooden house. Solar panels on the roof flashed brilliantly in the sun.
"Everyone buttoned up back there?" Fowles asked over the speaker. "There'll be a bloody big splash when we hit."
The plane was at thirty feet when it passed through the opening in the cove, and Fowles set it down with the promised splash, the windows plastered with streaming water. The plane slowed immediately, the two props on the high wings still whirling, the plane now a boat chugging toward the shoreline.
"Welcome to Paradise," Fowles told them. "Junior should be waiting in the. . oh, sod it all! Look at that, off the starboard."
Steve was already looking out his window, so he caught the entire amazing sight. Maybe it wasn't a pair of dolphins jumping in tandem or a school of sharks in a hunting party. This was both more impressive-and more threatening. Without quite knowing why, Steve sensed that this sight portended a greater impact on his life than the wonders of nature.
A man in skimpy, black Speedos shot out of the water, smooth and sleek as a Polaris missile. He held a lobster in one hand and grabbed the pontoon of the seaplane with the other. With athletic grace, he hoisted himself onto the pontoon and waved the lobster over his head, flashing a smile toward the fuselage windows.
Could he see Victoria through the glass? Steve wondered.
She could surely see him.
And what would she have seen? Or, more important to Steve, what would she have felt?
The man was an inch or two over six feet tall, with a swimmer's body. Flat waist, ridged six-pack of abs, carved shoulders, and long, smooth, muscled arms. With his arms raised, his lats flared like stingrays from his sides. His chest was simply too large for the rest of him. Two slabs of meaty pecs, like thick steaks, and an overall impression of chesty, brutal strength. He was suntanned a deep bronze, so deep that his smile looked dangerously bright. His long hair was slicked straight back and darkened from the water, but Steve could see it was sun-streaked. An Abercrombie amp; Fitch ad come to life, a fucking nightmare of a guy, Steve thought. But even worse, he wasn't just some chiseled waiter-actor or model-poseur or jock-beach bum that infested South Beach like cockroaches in the hotels. No, this guy had a history with Victoria, and with fissures already appearing in the professional relationship of Solomon amp; Lord, Steve was starting to feel insecure about their personal relationship as well.
"Jun-ior," Victoria breathed, her face pressed to the window, somehow making the name sound pornographic. "My, but he's all grown up."
Was it Steve's imagination, or was her breath fogging the window?
Standing on the pontoon, one arm gripping the strut-all the better to display his undulating muscles-Junior Griffin turned squarely toward the fuselage, and now Steve noticed one final attribute. The sizable bulge in his Speedos. Steve wasn't sure where Victoria's gaze was directed, but he could swear he heard her sigh.
Nine
The seaplane rolled onto the concrete ramp at the water's edge. Bobby clambered down the stairs, followed by Victoria and Steve. In an instant, Junior appeared, kissing Victoria swiftly on the lips, then twirling her off her feet in a big, wet hug.
"Wow! You're here," he said. "You're really here."
She laughed at his enthusiasm, so straightforward and without irony or sarcasm.
He set her back down on the dock as if she were made of glass and looked into her eyes. "Tori, I've really missed you."
Tori. No one had called her that since she was twelve. In fact, nobody except Junior had ever called her that, and just now it sounded so sweet and lovable that she felt herself blush.
Junior exchanged pleasantries with Steve and Bobby but never broke eye contact with Victoria. Was his smile always this radiant, she wondered, his dimples so deep? His eyes were a deep blue, almost the color of one of her eyeshadows, Adriatic Azure. She watched him towel off and pull a pair of white canvas shorts over his Speedos. The rich golden hue of his skin, the lingering taste of salt water from his kiss, the warmth of the sea breeze. . so many sensations bombarding her.
Bare-chested and barefoot, like a preppy Tarzan, Junior led his visitors up a flagstone path toward the house, Casa de la Sol, according to a tasteful sign embedded in the wall of coral boulders.
"Dad told me how beautiful you are," Junior said, "but wow. I'm at a loss for words."
"That's so sweet." She was aware of Steve next to her, could feel his discomfort.
"And a big-time lawyer, too. Wow."
"Wow" seeming to be a key component in Junior's verbal arsenal. Okay, so he was never valedictorian at Pinecrest, but he was voted Most Popular. And now that he'd turned into this bronzed Adonis, all she could think was, Well, being a National Merit Scholar isn't everything.
"All these years. ." Junior said, letting it hang there.
"Yes," Victoria said.
"Do you remember Bunny Flagler's costume party at La Gorce?"
She smiled at the memory. "You were Zorro. I was Wonder Woman."
"We sneaked out to the eighteenth green."
"And the sprinklers came on." Victoria laughed. Remembering spiked punch, an Eagles cover band, and sloppy kisses in the humid night.
Steve cleared his throat, the sound of a dog growling. "I once went to a costume party as David Copperfield."
"Great magician," Junior said.
"The Dickens character," Steve corrected him.
"Oh, right."
"He was an orphan, like me."
"You weren't an orphan, Uncle Steve," Bobby said.
"But I wanted to be."
"Why?" Junior asked.
"Not sure you'd understand," Steve said. "You live in Casa de la Sol. I grew up in Bleak House."