“Yep, that storm the TV promised is on its way,” Lee said, smiling, nodding. She had already congratulated Polly on the discovery of Lorin Jones’s missing paintings, and promised to borrow a Polaroid camera for her. When Polly let on that she was going out again that night with Mac, Lee grinned knowingly. “That’s right, honey,” she said. “You can’t work all the time, not in Key West.”
“Well,” Polly said. “This is work in a way; it’s research. I’m hoping he’ll tell me something about Hugh Cameron.”
“I’ll bet.” Lee’s wide flat Polynesian lips spread in another grin. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing anyhow.”
“Oh, I do, don’t worry,” Polly lied — because what the hell was she doing? What had she done already?
Well, one useful thing: she had called Jacky Herbert at the Apollo Gallery to report her discovery of the two lost paintings. After all, even if she hadn’t found Hugh Cameron, this trip to Key West had been a kind of success.
In more ways than one, she thought now, looking sideways at Mac, who sat next to her at the outdoor bar of an oceanside restaurant called Louie’s Back Yard. The wind, stronger here, shook the trees overhead, sending down a scatter of tiny leaves; it flung a succession of spotlit creamy green waves against the sea wall. Most of the other customers had retreated to a higher and more sheltered deck or gone inside.
“You want to try a piña colada?” Mac suggested. “It’s the local specialty.”
“Sure.”
The bartender, a long-lashed Michael Jackson type, squirted syrups and shook them in a blender, then placed before Polly what looked like a tall vanilla milkshake, with its own pink paper umbrella. She sipped the sugary froth warily.
“Too sweet, maybe?”
“Well, kind of.”
“Don’t drink it then,” Mac said. “Have something else.”
“All right. I’ll have a spritzer.”
Mac waved and ordered. “Listen, I don’t want you to give up on Key West. Tomorrow we’ll go to the Full Moon Saloon; it’s a kind of funky place, but they have good conch chowder and real Key Lime pie.”
“You think I’m having supper with you tomorrow,” Polly said, trying not to smile.
“What’s the matter, can’t you make it?”
“I’m not sure. I just wondered —”
“Yes?”
“What about that woman you told me you were living with?”
“That’s my problem.” Mac’s voice went cool, then uneven. “Does it bother you?”
“Not really,” she said, equally cool.
“Okay then.” He stared out over the darkening, churning sea.
It might not bother me, but it bothers you, Polly thought. You feel guilty because you’ve slept with another woman. And I feel guilty because I haven’t. It’s a joke, really.
“The thing is, Varnie and I, we’ve been having some rough times lately,” Mac said after a pause. “She’s a real eighties type: what she’s looking for is security, and a father for her kid. She has this four-year-old daughter, see. She wants to get married and set up a nuclear family, but I’ve been dragging my feet.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Last night, I didn’t even go back up there. I stayed at the house we’ve been working on, here in town.”
“Oh.” There was an awkward pause. “You don’t want to get married,” Polly said finally.
“No.” Mac shook his head several times. “Not to Varnie anyhow. I know what it’d mean. Life insurance, holidays with the in-laws, what they call a job with a future, and sleeping with somebody twice a week because you promised the State of Florida you would. That’s not my scene.” He pulled his gin and tonic toward him, but instead of drinking took the plastic straw out of the glass and, holding one finger over the top, released two drops of liquid onto the straw’s crushed paper casing. The paper caterpillar squirmed, expanded, collapsed.
“I haven’t seen anyone do that since sixth grade,” Polly exclaimed.
“Want to try it?” He grinned.
“All right.”
As her caterpillar in its turn rose and subsided, she realized for the first time what it resembled. The other kids must have known all along: that was why they had giggled and shoved each other so.
“Hey,” Mac said. “Do you really have to go back to New York Sunday morning?”
“Well, I was planning to.”
“Why don’t you stay awhile? There’s a lot here I’d like to show you. And I’ve got the whole day off Sunday. We could go out to the reef, if this storm blows over.” Mac glanced again at the waves, now spotlit to a milky aqua. “You ever been snorkeling?”
“No,” Polly admitted.
“It’s beautiful under the water. Literally out of this world.” He leaned toward her, stroked her arm. “I bet you could change your ticket.”
Don’t do it, Artemis cried, suddenly reappearing with a swirl of stony draperies. You’ve had your fling; if you don’t watch out you could become emotionally involved with this unsuitable person.
“Well; I could try,” Polly said, stubbornly refusing to listen to this inner voice. “But I’ve got to be back by Wednesday, I have an interview scheduled then.” What does it matter, she argued; it’s only three more days. I just want to get him out of my system. Yes, Artemis remarked. That’s what addicts always say. One more fix. Get it out of my system.
“Great.” Mac leaned farther toward Polly; he touched the side of her face.
“I said I’d try, that’s all.” In spite of her resolve, she smiled. Okay, she admitted. I like him. I could love him, even. What’s the matter with that? It’s stupid and dangerous; you’ll get hurt, Artemis replied, but her voice was shrill and faint.
“Great,” Mac repeated, putting his hand on her arm. The wind blew harder; the thick pale green lace-trimmed waves churned under the deck. He and Polly gazed at each other, half smiling.
“Hey,” he said finally. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”
“Okay.” She laughed.
“It’s, uh. This bastard that you’re looking for, Hugh Cameron. ... That’s me. I mean, I’m him.” In the gathering dark his expression was impossible to read.
“What?”
“I’m Hugh Cameron.”
He’s kidding, Polly thought. It’s another catch-the-tourists tale, like the Sea-Cow Ranch and the five-foot pelicans (both already refuted, with hoots of laughter, by Lee). “Oh, you are not,” she said. “You already told me he’s in Italy. And you’re not anywhere old enough to be him.”
“I’m forty-eight.”
“Yes, well.” She smiled, though it was a few years more than she’d assumed. “If Lorin Jones were alive now she’d be nearly sixty. When she left Wellfleet with Cameron she was thirty-seven; that’s twenty-two years ago, and you would’ve been only —”
“Twenty-six.” Mac nodded solemnly, keeping up the joke,
“Right.” Polly smiled. “Besides, Hugh Cameron is a poet — he was a college professor.”
“Yeah. He was a professor, but he didn’t get tenure, so now he’s a contractor in Key West.” Mac still did not smile; his expression could almost be called grim.
Polly stared at him. “Prove it,” she said.
“Okay.” Mac sighed; then he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and took out a worn pigskin wallet stitched with thongs, such as Stevie had once made in Boy Scouts. “Here. Driver’s license, library card, food co-op, Visa —” He fanned them out on the damp wooden bar.
Cameron, Hugh Richard. H. R. Cameron. Hugh Cameron.
“Oh, my God,” Polly said slowly. Then a crazy laugh came out of her. She shoved her stool toward the ocean, away from him.