Giselle turned down Eli’s offer of banana-pecan pancakes for breakfast. Instead, she gulped a quick cup of black coffee and left his apartment, insisting she had a busy day ahead of her. She seems to be in a big hurry to get away from me, he thought. I don’t usually have that effect on women.
He decided to make pancakes for himself anyway. He mashed a ripe banana in a bowl, then added milk, an egg, a box of pancake mix, and a handful of chopped pecans.
As he dropped a dollop of batter on a hot skillet, the phone rang. Miranda’s name and number flashed on his caller ID.
“Hi,” he said, pressing the receiver between his ear and shoulder to keep his hands free. “How’s it going?”
“Good. Am I catching you at an okay time?”
“Actually, I’m in the middle of making pancakes.”
“Sorry, I forgot about the time difference. Why don’t you call me when it’s more convenient?”
He flipped a golden-brown pancake. “Where are you?”
“The coast of North Carolina, near the Outer Banks.”
“Cool. As soon as I eat and pull myself together, I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure, okay. I’m about to take a ferry out to one of the islands, so reception could be iffy. If we don’t connect, I’ll just phone later.”
“Later, then. Have fun.”
Аfter a short boat ride from the historic town of Beauport, Miranda debarked on Shackleford Banks. She pulled the brim of her pink baseball cap down low on her forehead to shield her face from the sun’s burning rays. Slinging her straw tote bag over her shoulder, she set off down the beach in search of the wild horses. Her tourist brochure said the herd had descended from horses brought from Spain four hundred years ago, who supposedly swam from shipwrecked vessels to this desolate, nine-mile-long island.
She took off her sneakers and waded in the warm surf. It caressed her feet like a gentle massage, so different from the ocean in New England, where even in August the water remained bitterly cold. Mid-August already. It’s hard to believe my vacation is almost over.
The sun beat down on her shoulders, testing the strength of her SPF 50 sunscreen, as her mind cycled around to Eli. I wish he were here to enjoy this with me. She imagined him cooking breakfast in the California apartment she’d never seen. Do men really make pancakes for themselves? Most single guys she knew gobbled down cold cereal or warmed up leftover pizza for breakfast. Once again, she wondered if he had a girlfriend in Napa as she recalled the image she’d seen in the crystal of the woman with the dark curls sucking his fingers.
Miranda kicked at the water angrily. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. No signal, damn it. Shoving the phone back in her bag, she contemplated her relationship with Eli. The possibility of something long term between us is slim to nil, she admitted. Even if he’s not involved with anyone else, we live on opposite coasts. Long-distance romances never work out. She flashed back to her meeting with the tarot card reader in Santa Fe and wished she’d asked more about their future.
Pushing thoughts of Eli from her mind, she began scouring the beach for shells.
Miles of pristine sand stretched before her, sparkling white beneath the blazing sun. She spotted a conch shell partly buried in the sand and dug it out, but it was broken. After more than a dozen fruitless tries, she found one intact. Turning it over in her hand, she mused, it looks like a pussy with its blatant pink opening. She nestled the shell in her tote bag and continued walking. Next she snagged a sand dollar, then another. Carefully she wrapped them in Kleenex and added them to her bag.
Before long, she’d left the other the tourists far behind. She sat down on a dune and pulled a bottle of water from her tote bag. After resting a while, she ate the sandwich she’d brought along and gazed out across the water. Sunlight danced on the gray-green waves. Wind ruffled her hair. It’s so peaceful here. Again, her thoughts returned to Eli.
Wouldn’t it be fun to make love here on this beach? Miranda recalled the shooting stars she’d seen above Lake Michigan and the wishes she’d made with her girlfriends. Maybe I should just confront him outright. Clarify things. If he admits he’s involved with someone, I’ll cut my losses and move on. No sense wasting affection on someone whose interests lie elsewhere.
She climbed to the top of the dune and scanned the rolling landscape for wild horses. Far in the distance, she spotted a group of six or seven grazing. She turned to look in another direction and saw several more, but they, too, were a long way off.
Overhead, the sun beat down harshly. No trees cast shadows to shield her from its glare. A swim in the ocean would feel good right now. Wish I’d brought my swimsuit. She walked down to the water’s edge. There’s nobody around for miles, she rationalized, scanning the beach. What the hell? Quickly she stripped off her shorts, T-shirt, and underwear, and raced into the surf. The soothing water embraced her as she breast-stroked leisurely through the rippling waves. It’s not exactly cool. Still, it’s refreshing.
She rolled over on her back and floated a while in serene silence.
After fifteen or twenty minutes, she swam back to shore. Standing naked, staring out at the sea, she let the warm wind air-dry her body. She held her arms out parallel to the ground, the way the cormorants back in New England spread their wings to dry them.
Suddenly, Miranda sensed someone watching her. She turned around to face a half-grown bay colt about ten feet from her, pawing the sand. When she held out her hand to him, the shy colt backed away.
“What a beauty you are,” she said softly. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”
The colt tossed his head, without taking his liquid, dark eyes off her. She inched toward him; he held his ground. Slowly, she took a few more baby steps. The colt stood still.
“Will you let me pat you?” she asked.
The colt tossed his head again and snorted.
Behind her, Miranda heard a click. Turning in the direction of the sound, she saw a balding middle-aged man holding a digital camera.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said angrily.
Startled by the change in her voice, the colt trotted away.
She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Oh shit, now look what you’ve done.”
“Sorry,” the man apologized. “You looked so pretty, standing there with the horse. Like Lady Godiva befriending her mount. I couldn’t resist.”
Miranda grabbed her shorts and T-shirt and pulled them on, shoving her underwear in her tote bag. The man checked his camera.
“Want to see your picture?” he asked.
“You’ve got one hell of a nerve.”
The man laughed. “Yeah, I know. If it’s any consolation, your face doesn’t show.”
“If you had any decency, you’d erase the damn thing.” She jammed her baseball cap on over her wet hair.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see it, at least?”
Miranda’s curiosity got the better of her. “Oh, all right.”
She walked to the man’s side and peeked at the image in camera. Hmmm. It’s really good. The guy’s got an eye.
He handed her his business card. Scanning it, she noted the name of a national magazine under his own. “If this picture turns up in print or online, I’ll sue you, I promise,” she threatened.
He grinned at her, as if calling her bluff. “You should be so lucky. If you give me your e-mail address, though, I’ll send you a jpeg.”
A mischievous idea popped into her head. She dug into her bag, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scrawled Eli’s e-mail address. “How ’bout sending it to my boyfriend? It’ll make him wonder.”
The B&B’s back porch overlooked a garden of old roses. Miranda was sitting on a wicker settee, enjoying their sweet aroma and drinking iced tea when her cell phone rang.
“How was your trip to the island?” Eli asked her.
“All in all, very satisfying. I saw some wild horses, collected shells, and went swimming in the ocean.” If that photographer e-mails him the nude picture of me, he’ll see for himself. “What have you been up to?”
“Working, mostly.”
“On Saturday?”
“Grapes don’t stop growing on weekends.” He paused so long, she thought the call had dropped, before asking, “Miranda, did you tell anyone we were going to New Orleans?”
“I don’t remember. I might have said something to one of my girlfriends. Why?
Was it supposed to be a secret?”
“I’m still trying to figure out how those Frenchmen knew where to find me.”
Miranda finished her tea and set the empty glass on the floor, swinging her bare feet up onto the settee. “Did they? You said yourself you couldn’t be sure the two guys who accosted us in Jackson Square were the same ones who attacked you in San Francisco.”
“True.”
“How can you even be sure they were French?”
“When we started running away I heard one of them say ‘Arretez les.’ It means
‘Stop them’ in French.”
“Half the population of Louisiana speaks French,” she pointed out. “It’s more likely they were local thieves bent on robbing a couple of tourists.” I never told him about the scene I saw in the crystal. He’d probably think I’m nuts.
After another long pause, he said, “You may be right.”
“Have you run into any more problems since you’ve been back at work?”
“No. Surprisingly, it’s been pretty quiet so far.”
“Good.” She checked her toenails and thought, I really need a pedicure. “Look, Eli, I’m not discounting your theory. But if a competitor wanted to get you out of the picture to keep you from revealing what you know, wouldn’t they have tried again by now?”
“You’ve got a point,” he admitted, letting the subject drop. “So where are you headed next?”
“Home. I can’t believe my vacation is almost over.” She switched the phone to her other ear. Okay, time to find out where things stand between us. I need some clarity.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She took a deep breath. “When I get back, I’d really like to have you come visit me. I’d like to show you around New England.”
“I’ve never been to New England.”
That’s not exactly a yes. “Eli, do you have a girlfriend in Napa?”
“No, there’s nobody special.”
“It’s just, well, it’s been fun hanging out together, when we weren’t running from bad guys, that is. I like you. I hope we can see each other again.”
“I like you, too. When I’ve straightened things out here, we’ll work something out. I hear Salem’s the place to be on Halloween.”
After he hung up, Eli kept hearing Miranda’s words ringing in his head: “Half the population of Louisiana speaks French.”
Giselle’s from Louisiana, he reminded himself, remembering the hint of an accent that lingered in her speech. He flashed back to last night when he’d caught her going through his desk drawers, and her response when he told her he’d given the Mort Jaune report to Troy: “Mon dieu.”
He picked up the remote and turned on the TV. For several minutes he channel-surfed, trying to find something worth watching, and eventually gave up. The only people I told about my trip to New Orleans were Coyote and Giselle. He switched off the TV, leaned back in his chair, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. For the umpteenth time he asked himself, Who had the opportunity to plant diseased vines in our fields between three and four years ago? And who bore a grudge against Meditrina?
Pieces of the puzzle slid together in his mind’s eye, forming a clear picture. He shook his head, wondering how he could’ve missed seeing what lay right in front of him.
Eli, you’ve been thinking with the little head instead of the big one.